I’ve been caught up

in activities spent in Denver the last full week, including bee-stings, beers, bands, an overwhelming sense of community, and overwhelming topic of “moving elsewhere.” I have been hand writing my experiences there of the last 7 days, narrating feelings and events in a little flowery notebook. Now, after a 14 hour day, I’m fading. I’m exhausted and itchy, I passed out on the plane while listening to Midlake. I talked to a mountain dwelling lady for awhile about the politics of marijuana and mountain sports, the names of mountains in the Cascades. We flew just after sunrise. I read some José Saramago and woke up over Washington. Now, itching with exhaustion, I need to admit I’ve been too busy to publish any writing up here. I have a specific Denver writing project I’m working to accomplish. In any case, at least I was focused on the present happenings. The way plants looked in sunlight and the way margaritas tasted, how the sunburned eyes felt like a precursor to another migraine, to the verbalization of unspeakable things, to what happens to me if I talk out loud all of the things I should’ve just written down and moved away from.

Tomorrow morning at 4am I climb to Camp Muir on Mt. Rainier, to 10,000 + feet over the river valleys below. Good bye.

Suddenly Realized I’m Leaving Seattle

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.

 

More later.

memories influenced

I am tired of failing to communicate my thoughts and feelings. Through writing I can let them slip out through the back screen door and offend nobody specifically with the weirdness of their verbal iteration. No weirdness of their verbal iteration here because I don’t have to worry about tensile jowls of the tongue tied telepathic crystal healers. Paleontology mixed with angel dust and absurd combinations present themselves out of the primordial soup of what I meant to say or what I could’ve said. Continue reading

a tornado moving away from you

9:09 – 9:27

Felt strong enough this morning to throw my car overhead into Lake Union, spinning it like a lasso and releasing like an arrow. Watching it rock-skip across and then never sink. I’ve read eating hamburgers is worse for the environment than driving a car, even a leaky, groaning, old Ford Focus. So choose your battles. Watch the others fight and die other issues you are vaguely attached to. Why yes I have a dishwasher. (Or me.) No, of course I wash my dishes by hand. The warm water only comes out at two settings and one setting is not-at-all. Other is niagara and extreme wasteful. Then the clickery heating ducts that tap tap tap on my ears like an ice pick exploring for cranial cables to severe to make me more docile. No no doctor. Give me the surgery that severs my docility.

A stress fracture, or fractured stress, something compartmentalized into different bodies of pain contained within me like sleeping viruses. So I’m anxious because my life is changing rapidly for the better. There is travel momentum on my side.

Brief side story. One week ago today we met up with Kiel in Arcata, California after a terrifying night of cloudy, icy, night-flying over the blackening coast. He droves for free to the airport, gave us a smooch, and off we went. Velocity in tow, our bags full of velocity, our eyes in all directions, our speed our adrenaline, our veins pumping it through the innercity work of organs interacting. Let chemical washes flow. From Arcata we flew down the coast nearly to Oakland before cutting inland, aimed at Bakersfield. Along the rocky coast I saw a pod of whales, I believe to be a pod of California Gray Whales embarking on their great northern migration. We flew at 2,000 feet over them and waved and they steamengined water out of their blow holes for sheer joy of it. They breathe oxygen and are warmblooded. So many swirling blowholing shapes down their among the rocky outcrops and little buried islands, the little buried islands that wreck schooners.

So many other details. A little flight sick for me over the cattle farms and wheat fields a bit inland. After seeing the model villages of Napa Valley. Then over the ass end of the Sierra Nevadas over wind farms and a valley spreading in all directions at sunset. Then following highway 12 up into the city because a visual reference is worth erasing flight plans for. Otherwise vague mountainous hills as we are told to descend via tower and probably terrain alert right into them with a speed of 140 mph, basically just a really fast car all the way down through the air of cold Tacoma to the Gulf of Mexico, the heat and humidity and elevation loss and gain and so many little houses down dirt roads with cars driving on them .

May 21st 2014

—- morning —-

The coffee isn’t strong but it is loud. I thought my days would be tangled up with the wingspan of a passenger plane — that somehow my body through space would be dragged along after it (my plane, my seat, my face, my name) as if a rope, 3,000 miles long, was tied around my waist and the slack keeps lessening and lessening, like gasps of breath in a hospital gown, watching your own heart monitor palpitate irregularly and beyond your cognitive control and then half of your face is stuck in a grimace when some dull tumor messes with the wiring in yer infinitely forgiving brain. Oh New Mexico! Oh travel agency, the family clinic and the hand built home, oh the collie dogs running through the back yard, the rough play and the wax glazed eyes and the biting black mop fiend of a service dog…

It is more like a small piece of thread somehow caught up in the landing gear at take off, unraveling, unraveling, revealing my skin in small motions. I wonder where my sky carriage is at this moment? What fields of flowers is it casting a temporary shadow over. There is a pilot dreaming of a good hot spring hike through the Andes (if this dream exists, he cares not). To be a commercial pilot, flying 10 hours a day, your schedule must be flexible and you must enjoy to sleep single nights in single beds or in bunks with the flight staff each night in foreign countries, perhaps never explored in greater depth by you or yours. I imagine this airplane. This series of airplanes considering connections. How much fuel will they use in between this moment and when I climb through the aisles, clambering to my seat impatient to glue my face to the cell window and watch the world spin by from a discrete spot above. All clouds like a paradise arranged in singular puffs and then disappearing. I imagine the thoughts I will have in this plane. Alone. Over the country to Houston. (What geographic sights!) And then, alone, over the Atlantic in the aisle to sleep, sleep, dream and sleep. I sure do hope. Or write in a frantic scrawl the first few chapters of the story…. of the adventure as a whole entity.

—- night —-

Mistaken identity at the funhouse mirror waiting room. Is this a psychiatrist or the lobotomist? Must’ve gotten my appointments all ruffled up like feathers falling again. My sister has been through the gauntlet. Doctors with greedy eyes that understand little about the patience and investment of her kind of case. (the voices are loud through the wall – dare to complain…? life is fair, I thought) No she says, life is not fair, it has tossed me under the tires too often, the white smocks and pricking needles drawing blood for neurological tests the pills to addict and the pills to control addiction, here we had forward progress stacked up against another traumatic event. The original, the head and the cement, the others emotional and additive, dark roads unexplored and classrooms to find a voice within, glorious tactile arms of fate let her go and now she must forge ahead through a crowded veil of apprehension, making a forced attempt to get along with everything from that past life although it is disappeared. it is a plane left the station and she is left with her bags and pets on the runway trying to find a helicopter to steal and call her own. to putter away into the sunset where that imprisoned soul belongs, flying, scaling mountains of green velvet stalks, not in a societal isolation where resources and bright lit lawns could be afforded and portioned off. (Oh god could I be at fault for this? – by soaking up resources for an education as she suffers) Perhaps there could be a place for her… amidst animals and adequate counsel to help work through mental knots or circles.

I think of this because of the psychological experiments testing the language boundaries between our left and right hemispheres. The theories of shell shocked veterans, trauma vs recovery, and the characters, how they find their way through this spectrum. (the art of character creation as a personality trait.) It became messy and discredited. There were meaningful thoughts but time erased them because I couldn’t get them out fast enough in the least. All dumb founded and silly now. I’m sorry, Ray. I’m sorry Mrs. K. Apologies to you once more Cole for failing to notice the projector was unlocked. Sorry sorry sorry.