it's exhilarating and exhausting and infuriating. when I call this goddamn city a bitch, THIS is what I mean.
the allure, so you understand my conflict:
-14th and mercer
-frandy's deep fried treats! YAY! did I try any? no! it's hard to sample exotica when by oneself (see: the hakarl non-adventure, Reykjavik, 2011). I joined the semicircle of white people earnestly speculating about such things, just long enough to take this picture and flee. I need a fried-food-sharin' buddy. how fucking fun would that be? you're eliminated if you complain about your health or vanity in any way.
-no no, dumpling! THIS MADE MY DAY.
-tombs, her glistening nares, and my knees. another sexy night at the petersen henhouse.
I am the only one who can make jokes about this, ever.
-the queue for the loo at the Ballard seafood festival. I didn't know all this crap was occurring, and then I got off the bus and had to wade through white guys in Nordic helmets and the smell of barbecued salmon. hey, i ain't complainin'- I just don't like surprises much, and the bus was really slow.
all the shops in Ballard were having a sidewalk sale. I bought a CD of Edwin Collins' "Gorgeous George" for a dollar. remember the song "a girl like you"? SO GOOD!
thanks, Ballard. thanks, Seattle! you crafty, alluring wench! see?
-mysteriously boarded up windows. I don't think the house was vacant; there was still stuff in the backyard. I still need to fight the impulse to run up the stairs and knock on their door and ask to see what it looks like inside, is that okay? I could have possibly gotten away with that when I was 9 and snarly-haired and bespectacled and adults felt sorry for me. now: I have to remind myself that I'm a grown-up, albeit in a very liberal sense, and that such requests are probably more creepy and pathetic than they are acceptable.
but I still want to see. I want to fondle the wainscoting and smell the hot wood and see dust filtering through in sunny rhombuses.
years ago I went to an estate sale where NOTHING had really been fixed up- the house still even smelled of the old widow who'd lived there. and on the inside of all the yellow-painted kitchen cabinets there were still scraps of paper with her handwriting, pencilling out recipes in a quivery d'nealean script, affixed to the wood with scotch tape. it was then that I felt dirty. i thought: I'm rooting through your shit, your LIFE, the things you never thought someone like me would be in contact with, and I am so fucking sorry no matter how respectful I am.
I bought some yarn and a few LPs from that place. good deals.
...and, despite that filthy sensation, i still feel lucky for witnessing the scraps of someone else's full, entire life.
I can state with alacrity: I would have a hell of an estate sale.
anyway, that's what these windows reminded me of. and so I took this picture.
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