breathability

someone once told me that they felt sorry for me when they read my writing, because it was obvious that I spend a lot of time alone. 

that condescending conversation took place over a year ago and it still pisses me off when I think about it. it's such a wholly different spin on how I interpret things. 

*

solitude has nothing to do with the existence of moments like this. but I feel honored to be witness to it. 

my happy tree on a 73 degree May Monday, circa 650pm. 

limbal rings are the darker borders around your irises. they lighten as we age so more pronounced ones are supposed to imply youthfulness and therefore "desirability". but what if your limbal-ringed eyeballs are surrounded by tired sunburn and Uncontrollable Resting BitchFace (TM)? what then? 

so if I stare intently at you, it's only because I'm assessing your limbal rings, baby. 

the La Crosse apartments, built in 1907. I have a particular crush on that aerie unit, which was originally built as an open-air rooftop pavilion. it's one of the first buildings in Seattle that had its own telephone system. in 1920 a resident put beehives on the roof and collected 40 gallons of honey in one year.  

the bionic cactus pear, week 2.5. in honor of "Little Shop of Horrors", I christen this plant "Tawdry." 

new shit on 9th. 

I was actually, specifically just thinking about how much I wanted a pair of red, um, "please respect me" shoes. and the universe made it so. 

"then she asked, 'what have you been doing all these years?'

I wished I had something impressive to say, but again I could think of nothing but the truth." 

Iris Murdoch 

and the ides of May.

it's 3am. I fell asleep at 11 and woke up at 1. it happens. 

this used to be my hour, man- I'd be just getting off work and blearily grocery shopping among the stockers with their transistor radios, my scrubs splattered with crusty animal effluvia. driving home, I was often the only car on the Aurora bridge. sometimes I'd see possums staggering through manicured yards. when I worked in Wallingford and lived on First Hill I'd take the night bus. one time a drunken dude sitting behind me played with my hair without my permission. 

I loved feeling like Seattle was my personal playground. daytime can just be too predictable and crowded. when I stopped working swings and started living a diurnal existence, I was amazed by how many fucking people actually exist in this city. 

now it's just quiet and dark. I love the smell of the night. I love wondering what the few people out are up to. thoughts are different and more loaded now. what's that adage- nothing good happens at 3am? 

salt and pepper shakers at my parents' house. 

12th Ave. 

say "fern fronds" five times fast. 

baby spiders! *claps hands gleefully*

the darling little shit isn't supposed to be on the ledge. 

she loves that fucking toy. 

my former lair. the airstream is back in front of my old window and the blinds were tightly closed on a beautiful day. hahaha! fuck that place. 

Belltown fauna. 

"I found that the more I thought, the more details, half-forgotten or malobserved, floated up from my memory. there seemed no end to them. 

"so I learned that even after a single day's experience of the outside world a man could easily live a hundred years in prison. he'd have laid up enough memories never to be bored. obviously, in one way, this was a compensation."

-Camus

I remembered two dreams from last night. 

the first: I'm in a field and flying a kite by myself. it takes a while to get aloft. I'm not really running much, just letting it do its thing. it catches abruptly and starts to pull. "I haven't flown a kite since I was a kid!" I say, although there doesn't seem to be anyone else around. the kite is small and generically shaped, with tattered edges and washed-out sections of primary colors. it's a kite that's been neglected. 

and when I look up again it's just a string, and it's still pulling into the wind, and I want to let go of it but I wake up instead. 

interpretation, courtesy dreammoods.com: "some choice or gift comes with strings attached. there is a price you will need to pay. or it may suggest that someone is pulling the strings. you are not really in control of the direction your life is taking." 

...yeah, I can definitely apply that to some situations lately. 

second dream: I am in my newly rearranged bedroom and it is exactly as it is in reality. it is nighttime and I see something on the other side of the curtain, a ducking-down head perhaps? so I look out the window. it's my ex, stalking me, spying on me. he starts to rise up again, slowly, trying to look in. and I lunge at the window from the inside, trying to scare him away, trying to seem more dangerous and less fucking vulnerable than I feel. and I wake up. I am terrified and laying face down and my heartbeat is moving the mattress. 

interpretation: "to dream you are looking out the window signifies your outlook on life, your consciousness and point of view. it also refers to your intuition and awareness. you may be reflecting on a decision. or the dream is telling you that you need to go out into the larger world and experience life. consider the significance of the things you see when you look out the window."

and dreaming about being stalked: "it represents a difficulty or issue you're not confronting. these problems are not going to go away just because you are ignoring them."

these analogies fit. 

that is, I know exactly what is prompting them, and I am doing my damnedest to finally respect my intuition and make the most decisive, necessary changes. 

I say that often. sometimes I even believe it. but I chronically tend to flake out on my convictions after a while, to my detriment. and I'm getting too fucking old for my shit. 

*

I will upload more stuff later, but for now, Denny Way. this used to be the Greyhound service garage. the sign says "a new beginning in an old place."

why yes you MAY!

(one of) the May Day protests went directly past my work. at this point, it was just a snarl of earnest young people and some dude feebly playing bagpipes and a bunch of smartphones raised aloft and about 150 cops. the cops looked bemused and bored. 

my first, admittedly shameful thought: this would be an excellent time to commit a crime. all the cops are babysitting this parade. 

when did I reluctantly stop believing that shit like this was going to change the world and started seeing it as disorganized borderline-brattiness that really solves nothing? I mean, fuck, I'm still a throbbing liberal. I'm not too old. I used to be these guys. kids. whatever. I've marched defiantly and yelled back and hung fliers and fancied myself the one person that could change the world. we can all, each of us, possibly be the tipping point, the reason for things to finally make sense and be better. I still mostly believe that.... 

but I'm cynical because it's not the fucking efficient way to do things. it doesn't actually communicate what needs to be done. consider the Occupy movement: it irreversibly devolved from something everyone could agree with and get behind and feel passionate about, to a haphazard shitshow of inarticulate bleating and no tangible solutions. 

I saw on the news the next day that, unsurprisingly, everything went to shit at the Seattle protests and people were injured and windows were smashed. and I just rolled my eyes. it explains the three separate helicopters purring directly above my lair all evening. 

I guess I relate more to that quote from Harold & Maude: "still fighting for the Big Issues, but now in my small, individual way." I like how cheerily she said that. 

anyway, enough curmudgeony pontificating.

*

I love this building. I love this city in the springtime. Seattle is unsurpassed at baring its plumage. 

I have also always loved buildings that go directly to the sidewalk. another good example is at 65th & Phinney. it feels very European. these are the Serena apartments, 12th & Roy, built in 1926. 

Volunteer Park. there are a fuckton of gnats in this city! I wonder how many insects I eat and inhale every day simply by walking around. 

the sun at my back. 

the new growths on the cactus pear are already biting back. 

another view of the LimeIce simply because I'm so fucking impressed with my underwhelming domesticity. 

wisteria! 

last night I watched the bird on the wire for about fifteen minutes. he was an asshole, even in avian terms. he would fly to other trees and bitch out the birds there, then come back to the wire and shriek. at one point he flew to the very top branch of a birch tree and swayed in the breeze. black bird, small, long beak, makes a noise like a slide whistle...? 

I also discovered that my upstairs neighbor has mounted a birdhouse directly above my living room window. this explains the birds I see flying almost-directly into the building.

*

I like her style. 

every neighborhood needs a Fuckyu Tree. 

Ballard. 

I don't know what these are, but there's a patch of them near my steps and they're soft and innocent enough to make me question my throbbing atheism. I deem them "Puppy Ears."  

Sunny day self-portrait, 11th & Olive. I am carrying yellow tulips and that fucking Sonny Bono painting. accompaniments: Mexican Coke, a Starbucks cup, and a single-shot of cheap vodka.  

from the top of the Columbia Tower you can see the curvature of the building. they said that about the Concorde too... it goes so fast passengers can see the curvature of the earth. 

every time I think the phrase "Ballard Locks" I do so with an obnoxious Scottish accent. I cannot be the only one. 

wee salmony things. 

yet another set of Murderin' Stairs in Queen Anne. 

when I first encountered this guy, he was staggering across the sidewalk with a petal clinging to his back. I crouched down to attempt a video (with the intent of helping him afterwards, of course; I'm not a monster) but the petal flew away. how cumbersome must that be to a bee? would it be like us walking down the same sidewalk and a scummy mattress falling on us? 

I could pretend this is, like, my stupid roundabout homage to "Tapestry", but it's really just me in my slob clothes and Entropy not running away. 

a hasty photo of cool reflections. 

this looks much more disgusting than it tasted. radishes and butter and salt, oh my. 

I took this by accident, but I really fucking like it. 

I find the reality of multiple boxes, fully intact and unused, of this horrifying product more worrisome than the product itself. was Presto kind of like Amway, and someone in the 70s thought they'd get rich selling this sort of thing, and they finally died and the family had to go through all their belongings, and stacked in the garage were all these? 

i guess that's kind of morbid, but that was the first scenario I manifested. 

my pride and joy. 

*

"write down everything you fear in life. 

burn it.

pour herbal oil with a sweet scent on the ashes." 

-Yoko Ono

scenes from a month

I've been busy. these are in no particular order. 

Pike Place Market. 

my Happy Metal Tree. 

Cal Anderson Park. 

jungle boogie. 

and shutting me up. 

a fancy-assed bottle. 

is that a guitar pick in your Lego box, or are you just happy to never mind.

on top of a large pile at the Fremont Sunday market. the store hasn't existed in decades. I always loved that logo. 

accidental antennae. 

fucking goddamn totchos. 

and a froglet at the zoo.