Way too Long

Well,

it's been too long. I've been feeling oh so uninspired for almost the past month or so. and it's been awful and stressful. but i stumbled across faint acquaintances' blogs and so, somehow, have been shamed? into writing again. But before that. I will draw inspiration from a song that I'm physically addicted to at the moment. And, so I'm going to go try to learn how to post it here.



I hope that works. I'm computer illiterate.

So, its sort of obvious that I'm still on my David Bowie obsession. But whatever.

I have been homebasing in Seattle and thoroughly surprised at my ability to handle the shitty weather (it's been the worst April I can recall) but I took a trip down to San Francisco (the city I hope to eventually move to with a job). First impressions are always funny to recount. Or maybe not. I embraced sunshine (oh yeah! this is what I love so much and get depressed when I'm missing!) Some powerful spell had been caste in Seattle to keep me distracted from my seasonal affective disorder, (which is a fancy name that people unfortunate enough to not live in decent places give to those who realize living sucks when the weather is awful) Or it's a "disorder" for when a human responds emotionally to the weather. Sounds quite disorderly to me.

So sunshine. I love it. San Francisco has been beautiful and definitely warmer than Seattle but not warm warm. Which is actually kind of nice, because I can still wear most of my clothing. Although in general, i'm opposed to wearing lots of clothes. the other thing I found funny. Walking around and navigating San Francisco once again, another familiar but forgotten impression came forth from the depths. AH! yes, ! this is what a city is! There are tons of different people, lots of weird people, I don't hear only english (or spanish and/or chinese/vietnamese/japanese etc) I hear italian, french, german, spanish, english, russian, chinese, vietnamese, japanese. Crazy languages! And crazy people. And different looking people. AND. a city is supposed to be big. Seattle, (never have I had quite this impression before) is TINY. It's so small. It's not a city, its a large town. Not that I'm opposed to that, it's just, returning to San Francisco was like returning to a city. And I like the city.

So sunshine and diversity (and this is only San Francisco!). Two things I had been missing in Seattle. The day I arrived I walked to Union Square and popped a squat. There were two (i'm going to assume.) art students sitting out in the square. A taller hairy man with a hat on and shorter fairer woman. They were both dressed in 19th century women's slips. Or whatever the white gown underwear thing would be called, a slip no? They had spread before them a large blanket and possessed two cans of whipped cream. Each had a lovely parasol and it looked to me that they were perfectly enjoying a sunny afternoon picnic. Watching all the wildlife stroll by with cameras and cellphones and the odd finger point. They even at stages, felt so immersed in nature they began to swing and dance all across the square. I was embodied in the word bemused. and by embodied i mean i was completely possessed by that word. Do you know what I'm getting at? The word possessed me. Moving on.

Later that evening I was traveling with two beautiful companions from the Union Square area to Potrero Hill area. I'll admit it. We took a cab. Which was fantastic. I recalled as we gave directions to our destination the opening skit (to which show I'm unsure) by one of my favorite stand-up comedians Eddie Izzard. When in San Francisco, Mr. Izzard had remarked that there are approximately 5 taxi cabs in San Francisco and that none of them have any idea where they're going. (it's funnier when he says it)(perhaps because he's in drag). Well, our taxi driver said he "would give it his best" (i would sure hope so) To find where we wanted to go. Sigh. Whatever. I can't say that bothered me at all. In fact I chuckled under my breath thinking about Eddie Izzard. So we found our address fairly painlessly. yet, when he stopped halfway up the San Franciscanesque hill to let us out at not quite the right address and cars began to pile up behind him. He jerked the wheel and drove the car into a gap in the parked cars. "Whoa, he said, the vibe just got really weird (we hadn't said ANYthing), to our bewildered faces he continued, "i'm just gonna sit here and decompress". "You do that" and "You need it" simultaneously escaped Crosby and my mouth. Pressing bills into his rough hand we stepped out onto the hill doorways away from our destination. lauren and I giggling at the decompressing taxi driver.

Oh. I had been struggling to remember where I had left this blog. At the Yelle, concert, that's right. Oh dear.

Outrageous. Yelle. Is. In. A. Word. Fantastic. including the current connotation of really good but also in the somewhat obscure connotation derived from its root Fantasy. It was, both, simultaneously (or one because of the other)(both ways). Garish, loud, out there colors and shapes out of some post 2000 80s reverie. And I think i mentioned before. A club full of sunglasses. (reviewing the few pictures I have I see it was less than I thought (and perhaps only me and few friends) but that directly contradicts with my memory. I definitely remember a platinum blonde by the stairway near the toilets who had some ridiculous bug glasses on and at whom I scoffed before finding, later in the night, myself in some ridiculous pair of purple tinted chrome rimmed bug glasses myself.

Had I remembered the wise old adage of "beer before liquor, never been sicker" I may have either chosen not to begin with Alaska Summer Ale. Or to continue to drink beer at the club. Well I chose neither. Although, to be fair, at the end of the night, I did remember to drink beer instead of more liquor (as opposed to several nights before drinking tequila at around 3am). However, I think at this point the Stella (the only draught label I could read, heh.) was warm and flat and absolutely disgusting. But that was after several whiskeys and maybe some perfectly innocent iced tea. So after thoroughly thrashing and crashing and yelling "Je t'aime" at the top of my anglophone lungs. After thoroughly soaking my thin white tshirt. After thoroughly avoiding sloppy makeout seshs with strangers (which cannot be said of some of my companions). After allowing the event photographer (group photographer, whatever) ample time to photograph this youthful indiscretion in his white/pink/black Vespa Firenze Italia shirt and purple tinted chrome glasses. i decided to exit the club (without closing out or picking up credit card) and seat my soaking wet freezing cold self in a door stoop across the street (to apparently await my friends?) which, by lucky coincidence I looked up from the step between my legs and caught a glimpse of my friends turning the corner toward home. Bounding up I jogged over to join them.

Surprisingly, I was only hungover and not sick. the next morning. Which was fine, because I only had a job interview. (don't worry, I nailed it) Although, when Jenny asked me, in a very cunning way "what I would like to improve on" as opposed to "What are your weaknesses?" ho ho, I caught you Jenny, I know what you're asking. I may look hungover and out of it, but I know a hidden question when I hear one, sometimes.

Memory, I blurted out.

I felt pretty invincible after thinking I had made a huge blunder and watching Jenny break into what I thought sounded like a pretty natural laugh. Or, it could be that she could read my face like a children's pop-up book. Either way, I don't think it did any harm. I have an all day interview when I return to the big gray cloud.

But like I said, I'm in San Francisco now. And am eating cold leftover egg rolls for breakfast. Somehow, I had nothing to eat yesterday. Who knows, I have this awful habit of forgetting to eat. So I ordered some Chinese food take out. Ate, mmm, maybe 5 bites and then went to bed (it was pretty late) so I woke up this morning pretty hungry and thank goodness. I still had two egg rolls left. microwave them you might say? Well, ladies and gentlemen and those who don't identify with heteronormative definitions of gender, when inspiration hits, you just don't have tyme to microwave egg rolls. (well gee, really firefox, you think i misspelled heteronormative?) bwahah

so, not really any fancy descriptions here, but most of the time that takes a couple drinks and then the desire to blog within about 12-16 hours afterward, otherwise, toss that memory to the wind. but hopefully i can blog a bit more regularly and consistently now that i think i'm not quite so stressed. dun dun dun da da dun dun UNDER PRESSURE. right?

oh and for all of you who are unfamiliar with my new role model, let's see if I can get this to post also...



let me know you're still here. yeah?

so I saw Yelle in concert last night... (). And it was fantastic. I loved it. I had a ton of fun. Imagine. Brightly oddly dressed people of Seattle, crammed into a large room with giant portraits of Stalin, Hitler, Nixon and other hawk type world leaders. Absolutely jamming. My friends and I were pressed against the knee high stage. The bright colors and the large portraits swimming with the crowd to some sort of French take on 90s synth. Glasses swaying and booze flowing. Needless to say we were all soaked. And feeling, smelling, being, exactly the scene of urban youth. Head pulsating with the incredibly loud music and ready for anything. The dimly lit lounge did not deter the unanimity of extra large sunglasses of varying colors and tints. Each hipster in his personal shadowed booth reveling in the bliss of abusing one's body. And giving up all concerns and obstacles to happiness to the air to literally be obliterated by the undulating bass. Rattled to pieces to be picked up the next morning...


speaking of which, i need to go pick up my credit card from the club. I'll continue this later.

Unravel unravels as you say it...

the yogurt is too runny. i have to drink it out of the small plastic tub. i like my yogurt really viscous. and the sky is grey. but i'm not complaining. i've become remarkably resilient to the weather here. i'm not quite sure what's happened. i've been here, let's see...just over a month I believe. a month. of shitty shitty weather. and i'm more or less doing ok. whereas in NZ it took four days of rain to unleash a torrential flow of bitch bitch bitching, I haven't done much at all. Perhaps, I just haven't written in the blog. I heated a pot of water halfway before deciding i didn't want spaghetti and turned the stove off. the pot and the water are still sitting on the burner. (element, in those decidedly more english of ex-english colonies). I opted for three slices of reheated pizza. Ah the life of the unemployed.

I started Nabokov's Lolita (arguably his most famous work?) and at one novel and 55 pages later I'm at the point where I find Nabokov, weird. In any and all senses you could ascribe to the word. Do people ever stop to consider how all encompassingly complex and absolutely *perfect* a word can be? apparently encompassingly is not a word. and also, blogger in it's rampant technical troubles cannot italicize at the moment. Thus the use of asterisks. (my my, my exposure to the french comic book Asterix definitely hindered my ability to spell asterisk correctly.)

I had an exhausting weekend. Not due to any large amount of activity, but the shift in hourly shifts of consciousness. Friday night, by all accounts, could've been classified as a "ripper" leaving much of the social circle hobbling to an odd rhythm Saturday. I myself was included in this, until I had realized I hadn't eaten or drank anything all day. Eating a pot of pasta and gulping several glasses of tap water soon alleviated my dizzying abstraction from my body and I felt capable of handling, in a young professional's world, what is Saturday night. But my companions felt otherwise. So it was one of those nights, where you chase around your desires. Themselves, pulling together into a tangible entity before again dissipating into a fatigued ennui that suggests to the back of your skull that perhaps your bed, should be the next destination. Stubbornness kept me out (or perhaps my alcoholism) and by excuse of having to reclaim a lost article of clothing from a local bar I set out, stripped of the majority of my company for the watering hole. And there, after quenching a nagging but needless thirst and enduring a pummeling DJ I decided to call it a night. In fact, my watery dregs of a drink were practically taken from my hand by the proprietor's minions intent on closing well before last call. All for the better I thought and left.

And so, it's Sunday. a sunday with a grey sky and indecisive spaghetti. and, well, what is it? Several hours perusing various job search sites and a dollop of Nabokov, Lolita's no less. Yes, that was definitely part of it. It was a sexual restlessness. No wonder the spaghetti was indecisive. I met a young German once. He had explained, that he thought "horny" was such an awful english word. He loved english, and loved learning it (which often lead to fantastic conversations, me, with a love of, shall we call them uncommon? english words and a great interest in passively learning german, and he, taken with english, and more than obliging in passively teaching me german.). But the worst english word he had learned had been horny. (i can't remember the german equivalent, so passive is my learning) but phonetically he abhorred the word. And after that discussion, so have I. it drips with vulgarity, but yet, in search of an appropriate substitute term, I've drawn blank. Any other word seems not so much an equivalent, but a euphemism and euphemisms on this topic can only relay frivolity. Perhaps I should attempt more zealously to remember the German expression.

I haven't read Razor's Edge. Let's add it to the list.

The club had that faux-nouveau decor that I can't say I dislike, but I can't quite commit to it either. It's the antique-y bohemian-y feel and style that I find comforting like victorian with an eastern flair, but everything in it is new. It's not victorian, it's victorian style. And that, on top of it all, makes me want to vomit. but it works alright when you're a couple deep.

i'm going insane.

Portland

What did we do after the bar? And did we take a cab last night?

It seems there could be better first morning thoughts. Like look at the growing patch of blue sky over the Space Needle. Or, I love that itchy stretchy feeling of a Saturday morning sleep in. Even a sly smile at cheating a deserved hangover. But, no, I began this morning trying to remember the previous night.

A good night undoubtedly. Funny how the feeling and mood of the evening stays longer and is recalled more swiftly. It seems the details are superfluous. And aren't they? well maybe. But it's the details that created the feeling.

Earlier in the week, I had been shown to a hip dimly lit bar (aren't they all?). And sitting there, on a bare, old wood bench, with a small pillow on my back I smiled, relishing the four drink drunk. With heightened senses, and the romantic alcoholic shades on, I took inventory of my environment. Lopsided and thin, held up in billows horizontally, the white sheets of what I suppose would be classified as a curtain, reminded me of an old ruffled shirt on some renaissance european. And the artwork, as it were, was expansive and the high high ceilings allowed for it to spread and expand and grow. Faces, in charcoal, perhaps, in varying stages of completion, some straight on, some profiled. Layered on thin parchment or wax paper it all seemed, to my mind at the time, to speak. Lost, it felt lost, it felt directionless on that large wall. The layered faces were incomplete, indecisive. Yes, the art of our times.

So I felt at home there. On the old bench. Looking at those lost faces on the wall. The semi-crowded bar was filled with animated faces. Not incomplete but lively and full on a monday evening. Smiling, I sipped on my whisky.

Sinking into the leather seat and tucking my head in between the headrest and the back. I speed in and out of streetlight arenas, taking a passive part in the journey down this empty concrete river. My hands stretching deep into my pockets and my elbows tucked under my ribs. Hah, I thought to myself. Monday.

So the week started well. And continued in that vein.

Hmm. I had more. but it's gone now. Perhaps later.

Red or White? It doesn't so much matter...

sometimes you find yourself so removed from your life that it becomes an enthralling show and goes best with a bottle of wine. i'll be back soon.

A Rainy Day in Seattle

There was once a comedian who remarked on the scenery in Iowa. Jokingly, he said "The scenery is always changing in Iowa....sometimes the corn is on the left, and sometimes it's on the right."

For me, its similar in Seattle. The scenery is always changing. Sometimes the clouds are light grey, sometimes dark, sometimes high and sometimes low. Well yesterday was one of those Northwestern days where the clouds were so high and omnipresent that they ceased to look like clouds. They simply washed the sky of its blue and left a dull grey, like the color of the brush wash after watercolor. It wasn't until the Sun began to sink to the edge of the Olympics did we get some color in the sky. A sneaking layer of yellow illuminated some depth in the clouds. Layers became visible and one could see the mountains draped (could one say immodestly?) with a combination of late evening Sun, snow and smoky cloud. Here and there, rocky face showing dark over the water. On my way back home from my run this scene popped in and out of view as I made my way past residential blocks. Each time I came to an intersection the roadway offered a narrow vista onto the expansive mountains and Sound.

It hadn't been like this earlier in the day. When I picked up my little sister from school. An interesting affair in itself. I had been through this all before. Going to Catholic school until college I was all too familiar with the white/navy scheme of school uniform. Yet, it was interesting viewing that uniformed crowd (chaos dressed in order). Having only really interacted with my sister and none others anywhere around her age group I found it startling seeing all sorts school aged children. I could no longer accurately gauge how big my sister should be in this mix. There were the older children, the sixth graders, I could rule out...but other than that, it seemed even the preschoolers could've been her. I remember her that size, it wasn't that long ago, maybe she's still that small. I knew, standing there with an assortment of the moms of Seattle suburbia (and a few dads), that she would need to pick out me, because I was hopeless to pick out her.

Luckily, she ran right toward me, bounding with her pink backpack slapping her on the back. She promptly forgot about anything and everything around her and we sidestepped front hoods and opening hatchbacks to our car. I had been told this was an extra special deal for her (being picked up by her brother) and that I needed to do something special for her. Which, as often happens with me, I got all sentimental about and dreamed of all the fun we'd have when I picked her up, but then, sitting in the car waiting to leave the parish parking lot, I got extremely tired and didn't feel like doing anything at all. I couldn't muster the excitement to even excitedly engage her in conversation. When she replied, "Goooooood" to my question about her school day, I could tell she wasn't interested in talking about and I simply let the conversation go entirely.

I decided to drive her to get ice cream and then onward to throw rocks on the beach. She dropped an oh so subtle six year old hint that "Mom, one time, let me get two flavors of ice cream in the same dish". I responded, "That must have been special" to which she assured me that it had occurred on the most normal of days. I conceded, "Some times, that Mom is just nice." It was then, that I felt cornered by my six year old sister. I HAD to give her two flavors. She chose Lime Daiquiri Ice and just plain Daiquiri Ice (there isn't much difference I'm guessing. I had Jamocha in a waffle cone.

On our way to the beach, I saw a sign for the town park. I turned around and asked, Park or Beach? And she chose park (I would've chosen beach). This park, "is not new to me" she said as I dodged traffic opening my door. Upon leaving the park, she looked for any diversion. Anything to keep her from going home. And when I had almost got her to the car, she took off running, shouting over her shoulder to me, "Let's chase the crows!" So Lilly chased the crows and I chased Lilly. I was slightly more successful than she was, but we're not really keeping track.

I didn't weed the rose garden with her like I said we would when we got home. I left her with her mother and went for my run. That's when I got to see the Olympics crowned in gold. As I slipped behind another block of houses I recalled all the people who had recently tried to convince me that "it truly is really nice here" or half-hearted "its too bad you don't like Seattle"s, I almost admitted to myself, in lieu of this mountain scene that it wasn't so bad, or maybe I'd like it. But caught myself quickly, reminding myself that never had I truly thought it wasn't beautiful here...it's just only beautiful 10% of the time. Which for me, it would need to be about seven and half times that. I like thinking of mountains as having their different personalities. I love the mountains of Southern California. Their rounded edges, in early spring covered with a soft fuzz that turns to amber brown in the summer and looks like the belly of a golden labrador. The dry desert flora forcing its way into the cracks of sandy granite or sandstone (I'm no geologist). And how, in Los Angeles, they act as border guards against the ever spreading human habitation. Making it look as though, someone spilled a glass full of concrete, whirling and eddying around central hills and finally coming to a stop at the foot of Mount Baldy and the mountains to the south. Looking out east and seeing the gateway to the desert cities, through which the 10 threads warily through a windtunnel. Yes, there's something to these desert mountains.

And their northern brethren are of a completely different ilk. Theirs is a hard nosed life of cold bitter wind. Clouds snagging on their spindly noses and heads. Scarred and jagged. They remind me of figures hunched in dark coats with blanched faces hunkered down with their backs to the wind and their heads sitting down in their shoulders. The smoky haze that lingers above them is less due to precipitation but the steady rise of the mountains' cigarettes, an effort to stay warm. Chain smokers they are, all standing in a row. I was going to weed the rose garden today then. But, today, it's raining.

I'll go running. That doesn't stop for the rain. But since picking it back up, I've found that my fitness forces my pace to slow to the extent where I get bored. I can't speed up or I won't last the run. But running this slowly, defeats even the purpose of thinking. I can normally think myself silly when I run and therefore lose track of a couple clock rotations. But that thought is always tempered with fatigue. Fatigue keeps my thought fresh and interesting since it becomes a task to simply remember what I've thought. And once I get so tired, I just stop thinking and black out. But this, this getting back in shape business. It's utterly boring. However, the alternative is simply unacceptable.