Analog by Night

I was bored at home and very cold. Apparently, days before I left for KY, the heating unit stopped working. Whether this disabling was due to the lack of fuel or some yet undiagnosed electrical failure is neither here nor there, beyond prefacing the note that it is still very cold in the apartment, and further, that cold was the catalyst to an early departure. The sufficient origin of a hasty exit was an earlier phone call to Quinn, and, to complete the trio of reasons, the cold and boredom of home.

So I step outside to start the car. » Read the rest of this entry «

Harvest went live today and the WWK went live yesterday.

yay. Now I have to find a real job.

Today was pretty nice. I was up by 830am, caffeinated by 10:30 and out at Discovery Park taking pictures by 11. Not much to see really; the Sound, the Olympics, the health geeks, running with their dogs.

I think it’s strange that all the women I saw looked like they dressed for the ‘event’ of exercise. I mean it isn’t strange in the context of Seattle. Health and nutrition is to Seattle what booze and self-degradation are to rural KY. Which is to say that it’s beyond sane in both places. A little bit of both is good enough; drink Jack while you ride around the lake, smoke this bullshit, eat these, or these (they are both very tasty.) And you can get them at several coffee shops, including the very close Cloud City Coffee.

Join the Revolution though, seriously, this place is the shiz thanks to Phil, Damon, and the Xstream Angler Scot. These three mexican trannies from Montana/Idaho, wherever, make the best cup, kick the best tunes, and have the best looking joint in Greenlake, neigh Seattle. I’m writing this from the Revs, and the Sherry cake is making me high.

Yeah, back to my day. It was clear and sunny which is like finding a gold tooth in your shit, so I decided I’d take advantage and burn through some film. I’m very new to photography, but I’ve got an old manual SLR Topcon Unirex from my Dad that actually takes great pictures. Much thanks to RLS-1. Since I have to use real film and have no access to a scanner, I don’t have anything to post for you right now, but I’ll show you some stuff later.

Quite possibly the strangest thing I’ve seen today was not the statue of Lenin in Fremont, nor the bubble-blowing cafe, next to the fry-cone guy at the vintage stuff shop whose name I forget, nor was it the Fremont Rocket, nor the entire neighborhood of Queen Anne. QA makes me quesy. It was the sealed yellow houses in Fort Lawton. Fort Lawton sits inconspicuously in the middle of Discovery Park. Hello, Discovery Park! Did I mention that it’s one of Seattle’s largest public parks, and you’re not allowed in the middle of it, because of this military ‘reserve’. Notice it’s not a “reservation.” That’s for the Native Americans.

I followed a sign to a viewpoint near the ‘reserve,’ and I was taking a picture of this huge white sphere, pieced together from angular plates before I saw the Neighborhood of the Damned, kindly labeled ‘Historic District’. It was one of those things that first looks like a water tower, but then you realize it’s some sort of weird antenna/listening device. You think, “ooh cool shot!” click. And my own camera click makes my eyes dart around the woods and I start to scurry off, thinking “I’ve got about a hundred yards before the spooks roll up, smash my camera into my face and carry me off to their bunker for interrogation.” It looks like a mini epcot center. I definitely did not get a picture of that freaky neighboorhood. It’s freaky because there are all these yellow two story Victorian houses—sealed. The windows have been meticulously sealed with vented wood panels, and everything is barren and locked. Some of the houses have plaques on the side with a unit number and some official looking signifier. Lower down the hill there are new cars parked at these lightless houses. NO sunlight. I guess I can relate, but damn.

Anyway, once I get the photos developed, I’ll post them in the gallery. For now I’m going to chow on this sweet Sherry cake Damon made.

ciao.

It’s six days ETA. Who cares right? What kind of a rude question is that? It’s Christmas, you dolt, if anybody’s gonna care it’s now.

Which makes today awkward. Somehow I thought it was further away; that I had another week to get sorted out, to endure, to make useful. Nevertheless, I’m two days into the last week here. Sunday I fly ouf Seatac to CVG, hop around on one foot for four days, and retire with a fifth of Jack to a hotel room in Northern Kentucky. Sober up for the shuttle right? Ache through another five or six hour tin can toss back to Rainsville, and the routine.

But somehow I’m excited enough to write about it. Of course I won’t know if I was excited for the right reasons, until I come back. I suppose you would expect that kind of judgment on landing, maybe 72 hours later, maybe after 50% of the time. But I believe that a single well-done moment can redeem days of stuttering and tripping, and misplaced hands.

And I’m so known for the delayed reaction. I may be quick on the return sometimes, and yes, I talk furiously with my hands (ou’re free to forget I said that), but the real weight settles in days later. All of the eyes, all of the long explanantions, the routine speeches, the reformulations of prepared dismissals. I’ll say, “yeah it’s too much and I’m nowhere in it.” You’ll tell me that it’s been too soon, or that perhaps, in an moment of quiet retribution, you’ll remind me that I’m smart enough to have this all worked out by now.

So daily, my little life flashes before my eyes, a history of my universe. It’s a history of untraversed roads, backing off and hiding. The camouflage of hiding in the moment, because the introductory paperwork, that prenuptial construction is too confining.

It’s not confining, that’s absurd. It’s obvious that it’s supposed to be containing, but it’s too liberating, it’s a liberating mirror. I steal the liberation in a kiss, in a goodbye, in a love letter, and in the walks to the car. What I leave behind is the seal, the signature. I’ve always been embarrassed by my penmanship.

Type. So I’ll stroll through the gallery, the memorial in six days. Optimistically believing that the pictures on the walls, are actually windows. Windows that don’t open; that I’ve closed. Who knows?