wednesday free-write

11:16 – 11:36

Up the creaking stairs into the heat of the attic, the closed doors and the slanted roof and the stairs that lead out onto the roof. Everything is left white and undecorated. I haven’t the patience for thumb tacks and straight-edges. I do have a special knack for letting my plants toast in the refracted heat through the seesaw window, and banged my head against it while moving boxes arbitrarily, “are you all moved in yet?” and then the trips to the grocery store in the midday allergy heat. The scattering of beads of sweat, feeling myself perspire sans activity, sans the pure David Brower acting, the action with consequence and the monkey wrench tossed into the gears of the machinery, the dynamite hidden under the dam, the tires of government jeeps slashed happily for the salvation of a grove of red woods. The Muir Wilderness is yet to be explored for my own gratification of life on the planet, as a symbiotic part of the greater green goods, a feeling my Dad and my Sister are feeling right now as they traverse a section of the Pacific Crest Trail in this ridiculous heat, from White Pass (snowless this time of year) to Naches Peak Loop, the wildflower vista with views of meadows extending like octopus arms or hearts, I don’t know the metaphor appropriate here. I haven’t been up there since high school. I am a dull and lazy person some days. Existing on lukewarm coffee or scalding hot cups of noodles or freezing cold iced tea, the relief of the three, and wondering how awesome Tuesday night’s sunset must have been to them up there somewhere. Camping in two separate tents. A communal fire set between them for collective warmth. Chopping up fallen logs for this purpose and to cook their little cans of beans and astronaut food. The mutt keeps watch and leaps after rabbits and birds with a reckless dive, crashing through fragile, delicate flowers, crushing and replacing with dust and footprints.

Long tangent there. I was out driving transfers from U.W. Medical Center down through the Montlake Cut, into that cursed left side merging lane onto I-5 south to meet up with people from the North through downtown Seattle, all the hazardous, blinkerless merging to be forgiven with a shrug, and then down past the stadiums and Boeing, the long gradual curves in the highway up through Renton. Boring shit through Fife. But there are a few views of Mt. Rainier along the way, especially during these warm summer nights, where the sunset lingers like spices on the tongue, the soft pinks and purples and golden glow from the west behind clouds and mountains, coloring the glaciers and slopes of the mountain with a painter’s palette…… the moon there in transit behind the snowy peak, nearly full, and the Venus-Jupiter slow dance.

may 18th

Morning Free-Write (meditation in the form of words. an untangling.) 

Of all the things to dream about. Cheering of a crowd to the lashing of a friend when accidentally thrown under the bus. I need to let the wall fall down and the pure bleed of thoughts spritz out of me. There are barricades to this form of subconscious. First wall is the skull. The second wall is exterior distraction. The third wall is my own self-consciousness when I think of audience or burning coffee or the curvature of my spine and straighten up abruptly, too abrupt, I’ll feel that later. Continue reading

fresh prints

There used to be children playing in that window and now there are adults lighting candles and drinking wine. This has to mean something to me. Some part of the brain triggers and pitches into the conversation nothing helpful: “maybe they are the same kids grown up and the length of your depression has lasted 17 years rather than 17 months.” The other voice sips his lukewarm white IPA with an air of derision. Anyway- the window, my kitchen window, is scraped occasionally by a dead rose bush, the sound of a nail on a chalkboard, the screech of something other than a screech owl who soar, and swoop, but those roses, maybe killed by floor space taken up by hyacinths and weeds, scratch at the window like a quarter on a losing lottery ticket. Continue reading

may 5th

Yeah yeah so forgetting things. Letting jazz replace what is lost. Letting what is lost stay lost, even jazz now. Okay world. What will you have me do if not remember you? Grey sunlight in the early morning. Itching all over. Letting red wine stick between the teeth and cancel Darwin. Heaping platter of Faulkner. Let the jazz and wine becoming poetry. Let the grammar erase itself with meaning. I am eaten. Soup, it was, and bread. Red pepper. Roasted. Russet potatoes. Then the 6th grader with weightier nerve took the eraser and got to rearranging my embarrassing forgetfulness. College papers do not ask the placement of adverbs in question form when the dictionary definition holds truth for moments only and seeps into backdrop of blues when the drum beat is erased and the piano and trumpet take the lead and the guitar is only a layer like a first coat of paint and the splashes of higher definite color with broken glass enamel, tooth smeared, guts all torn out with the advice of yesterday died inside that forgotten sphere up there in my mental architecture when the snow can be shaken up and globed and trotted and coating the cars enough to bend their muzzle. Alright, ridiculous, here I am fallen out of language because it feels good to let inhibitions slide off down the icy hill and into the frozen lake of languish. Nothing like that really.

I am sitting here barely caught up. Very itchy. Wondering what happened to all of my friends. What to do with my suddenly invited free time of evening without work (five minutes in the normal future) and finding myself barely up to the challenge of the literature assigned and the writing work to accomplish. Only available for parties of existential nonsense, this clown, all dressed in normal young man clothes, no suits though, because I’m not a business marketing major and my zip hoodie suits me as well as a suit suits you and your fast cars will leave me behind in my dumb old leaky brakes. No stopping now. I am an evolution of something. I am an expansion of younger selves but what would they think to see me so crumpled and heartless?

Heavy Eyelids & Columbia River Ale

Lost more time. It goes whoosh into paper cups. 12 of them for 40 cents a piece. Time left us with a small rack beer pong official length tournament table. Markings all cross hatched it like a multi use carpeted gym in an elementary school. Is it a basketball court today because of the always present grey-blue rain forest cloud cover? Can we use velcro tape to box off “jail” sections for capture the flag? How do we help them through our own horrors of adolescence? The Puget Sound all swathed in the same grey as the clouds and reflecting each other like a foggy mirror in the reflection of a foggy mirror with whales swimming orca-fin-out within.

Weekend goes away like barnacled humpbacks. Disappear into the unstructured depths of dark ales and submersible thoughts of sober intent all warped communication with the surface, some rational part of scientific mind in me was registering a blip on a radar, a blip of warning, a little red dot in a rippling pool of light laser beam green expanding circles, with the counterclockwise motion of the directional propeller, the compass of my desire, buried in the evergreen tap draft, drunk off the cerulean pure water of the local rivers, the confluence, the islands, the names of old, an unexpected sandy beach, an unexpected amount of skin revealed in the hot sun. Hear the groans of tension as we sink to crush depth. Then the implosion in the dark. A can of orange soda run over by a bus.

The confluence of Willamette and the Columbia. Through a cherry-blossom lined industrial park, seemingly abandoned for other venture capitalism on cheap plots of land elsewhere. All businesses out of order. For sale signs dusty and desperate in the windows and no smells of food cooking. Out on the beach and over cathedral park, the st. john’s bridge in its lonely majesty. One of countless bridges over the Willamette yet I know of so little bridges dangling precarious in the winds over the Columbia aside from the I-5 highway bridge out of Vancouver (Oregon Welcomes You) (Washington Says Return Soon!) and the half afloat 4 mile long crazy Astoria bridge over the Columbia delta breeding into the Pacific Ocean with clambeds all asleep and cozied up and yachts and cargo ships puttering about in the huge bay sized river outlet, currents doing nothing against the advent of anchors, the belief in anchors, the water traveling through sunlight to get into the ocean, all sparkled with the lemonworld caustic comments of ambivalent gods in lecture over wine over glasses overfilled, the hall full of disembodied philosophical pretenses and the sour grapes getting into the lake sediment… the Imperial Red Ale pronounced “Nathan” had me set for a moment out in that brick laded river sweet smelling magnolia strip kind of lovely avenue.

I realized my life is nearing enormous tectonic shifts. I will be forced up against finding a new home. Skipping rocks over my schedule gaps and letting Josh take the wheel for a week while I take passenger seat in Brian’s 1970’s Cessna across the great American continent into a landing strip somewhere in Florida for a day or so spring break 2015 and the wildlife that is implied in this adventure, the inability to pass it up, the selling of clothes to make it happen, the cities to plan on landing in, the studying up of electronic touring artists, the dance lessons, the piano at a young age, the breast stroke, the angel fly, the high dive, the boogie board and the sandy surf, the ocean tasted like blue raspberry mint kombucha – out there on the beach. Wondering what life would be like fully suspended in the air. The hawks over the I-5 corridor. The bald eagles. The horrible eyelid-weighted exhaustion. The tension and release of an ankle popping over accelerator and brake pedal. The landlord who walks over the beheaded remains of a poor bird left to rot on the front lawn.