Another romantically rainy gray day.
This one was full of crumbling sidewalks and a mouthwatering Doc Martens warehouse.
We went into a curio shop a little too much like my job in Ketchikan, AK. I could point out too many items we also sold up in The Final Frontier. Granted--it was fun to be a customer for once. However, when a guy in a neon orange hat brushed passed me to get to the keychains and I, for a millisecond, thought it was Summer Boyfriend, the fun turned murky like water cup after you've been painting for an hour. All the colors and also none at all.
I hate that something like that can stop me in my tracks. I hate that my waking, logical self is completely glad the relationship is over (bla bla bla, sigh, not that it was a bad relationship but we didn't belong together in the long run bla bla bla), but when I am caught off-guard, I panic. Panic at what? There is nothing to panic about; nothing to be sad about; nothing to be angry about. There's nothing. And yet...
Sweet relief when we got out of there.
Walking around Seattle, though, is magic. Especially Pike's Place. On one hand, the Seattle I experienced is industrial, gray, and stoic. On the other, it is vibrant, intriguing, alive.
Walking behind the dudes. Again.
Separate but equal, separate but equal.
I would love to live close to the ocean for ever and ever.
For Amanda and Prof. Allen.
I almost bought you both Dr. Who cutouts.
I would've been the coolest vagabond ever, I know.
But it would've been impossible to get them to you. Single tear.
Pike's Place. I loved feeling like I was transported into some other era as we walked around the little shops and stands. Everything so beautiful and bustling. The fresh fruit and vegetables begging to be sold; the people selling their organic Orange Spice Hazelnuts, their dried blueberries, their art, their craft, their bouquets of flowers, their smiles.
Blurry walking pictures of Pike's Place.
Busy, busy, busy day prepping for Thanksgiving.
Trying exotic jams and jellies.
I wish I bought a jalapeneo raspberry jam something or other.
Oh, and gooseberry. It's real.
Waiting around for them to throw some dead fishies.
We met up with these cuties (Tyler and Heather) for a little chit chat in cute lil ol'
coffee shop. They happened to be passing through Seattle for Thanksgiving break.
Yep, I look like I'm in Alaska instead of Seattle.
Notice my token teal jacket/xtratuff combo.
(forgive me, Olivia)
After saying a sad farewell to Tyler and Heather, we headed over to the Seattle Public Library.
Two words: mouth agape.
This place is a mind-trip. It is the exact opposite of every and all libraries in Oregon.
If I had a soundtrack to my life, I would like Thievery Corporation to narrate this entire experience...
or maybe Massive Attack, or some other shoegazey triphop masterpiece.
This is how it feels to walk into a geometric glass/cement building and ride a
neon green escalator past rows and shelves and cases of books.
This is how it feels to be in a library that doesn't smell like a library. Surreal.
I wish this experience on all of my friends, fond acquaintances, and medium-sized enemies (not my mortal enemies, though. I'm not that generous).
This is the view from the tip-top floor.
Scary, amazing, artsy, modern, breathtaking.
The third or forth floor is the "heart" of the library....well, it's all red. As in, ENTIRELY RED.
As in, I finally grasped the comically sentimental yet uberlame text the guy I dated in high school sent me (you know the one--the guy who was too old and pierced and tattooed and alcoholic and pornographic for me to even take seriously, but was also too sexy and forbidden to leave alone):
"If, tomorrow, you find yourself locked in a red room with no doors or windows,
you'll know that you are locked in my heart."
Adam, you are locked in my heart.
And, coincidentally, also your fiance's.
Lock me in your heart, viewing audience!
Seattle, you are locked in my heart.
As you can plainly see, the Seattle Central Library deserves all the praise and love that one could give. If a choice of where to live forever came down to which city had a better library, Seattle would win 1,000x over.
But wait there's more!
We hit up an open mic in some suburb outside of Seattle. I actually had a really good time at this particular open mic.
True confessions: I did feel a little off-put when I discovered that a boney, buzz-cut, tail-coated lesbian was one of the highlighted speakers for the evening. And this is NOT because I have ANYTHING personal against gay individuals. Please, strangers who happen upon this blog, please do not thing I am a hater.
It's just that I have been trying to understand the female role in the poetry scene. I have been discussing with my friend Olivia what works well or what doesn't work in female writing. I hate that "female" writing is a thing--that it's not just writing. But I think it is a thing, and a thing I need to understand and acknowledge.
Throughout this whole roadtrip, the most successful poets seemed to be lesbians/genderqueer/femme. Which, I guess, is fine--except that I currently do not identify as lesbian/genderqueer/femme (nor do I intend to) and I would like to at some point consider myself a successful poet. So, there's that slightly irrational emotional soup.
I would generally keep thoughts like this more private for fear of being misunderstood. And, frankly, I don't even fully understand myself yet. The hope, though, is to understand the scene, the niche, and myself at some point. I think at least expressing this thought so that I can continue to grapple with/process it is important.
And, all things considered, I enjoyed her expression. Her life was complicated, that's for sure. I left the venue reminded that I am in no place to judge another human being based on what I think is right , wrong, or a mistake. I especially shouldn't judge based on how I think people are supposed to react to challenges in life.
I chose not to read..........again. Sigh. Sorry to disappoint. And I mean that. I don't like presenting work to an audience that I do not 100% fully believe in. I feel slimy and uncomfortable about it. People can't buy what you're saying if you, yourself, don't buy it. I'm working on it, okay?
The great news is that Garrett sold (I think) 3 books. I was really proud of him. Lesson learned: always hit up the open mics with old people, cuz they will support your work.