I have grown myself into a nervous laugh – a testy pressing of depressing recipes. Circulate the bad blood back into the coronary and let yourself be worshipped by other anxious wrecks of young adults. Dancing sordidly to the music of “gloom,” “goth,” “shoe gaze,” and marvel at the meaninglessness of categories aside from how their dispersal in our minds reveal human frailty. We must compartmentalize broad swaths of the universe into jewelry boxes or else be crushed by an avalanche of fire agates.
I increased my days (nights) at work for the final 7 days of mine at the University Bookstore. I threw in the towel and got no congratulations but drank a few beers and then wine and had a huge cigar with a football sticker on the outside. Distracted again. Lost into a book and then an idea. I told myself I had to work every night to prepare my wallet for Denver. With this, strangely, I have given up on certain important social ties through Seattle. With the city itself even. I gave up on the Arboretum Hangs, the Golden Gardens Existential Crisis Festival, the Georgetown Wanderings, a solid Saturday/Sunday market perusal, some big history trees, the undercity ghost tour, a few native kisses… I have given my little evenings to a company policy I do not believe is functional or worthwhile. There is no reason for the overnight delivery. No one thanks you – and often are there senseless repetitions. There is a need for a clean break, a free day. An opening to take.
I’m leaving Seattle for a little while and now it all hurts openly.
Will I return? Will I survive long enough? to ever sit with the bronze firemen in Pioneer Square or fix the bike tire to make it through the interurban spiderwebs… the network of associations I’ve had and let fade, the old buildings groaning with their untapped mysteries, their generational history, the history of the forest the buildings were made with, the history the of soil those trees grew on. All of the trees in the city. All of the time it takes to learn to love a place or a person.
Instant love is cheap and untrustworthy. A feeling of unpalatable shame involved afterward. I cannot clearly define how this geography has treated me mostly because I do not feel well-steeped in the seven hills, in the lakes and rivers and dams and the Puget Sound Marine Ecosystem. The Seabirds and the local arthouse indie rock shows. Gallery openings and forgotten people. Sunlight coming in the window teasing me into wanting rain to fall again.
In school, I did not have enough time to adequately explore the benefits of a captive bus pass. I tell myself through retrospective guilt, that I would have performed differently given a second chance. Well, there are no second chances, only new ones, and most lessons learned occur too late, in a sick little paradox, to learn of a mysterious bridge through the Ravenna Park woods and then to never have time to find it until returning years later and suddenly remembering because it is not all lost there. Just desolate and self-destructive retrospective regret. A corrosive material. Given free time to achieve my exploratory goals, I have settled into some other self. I read some books, hikes some trails, drove to Portland a few times, bought a plane ticket to Denver, recording some guitar music, wrote much more guitar music, began and halted the compilation of writings into a sort of cohesive unit, organized by mental geography or topic and then edited to make more sense, the confessional and the abstract and the words flowing out without a filter or a care…. BUT doing none of these things with enough consistency to call it improvement.