Cold moon
White and Blue it stares
through empty sky,
Shines at wet grass
in too-cool-for-August air.
Deigns to ignore that
thuderstorms and tumult reigned
only hours before.
15 August 2011
05 August 2011
Americana
There are other Americas. Existing next to mine. They are there, sometimes blatant, sometimes occult. They weave in and out and touch the edges of my America. But I can't get to them.
Someone told me once that Seattle is a small city. And it is true. I always run into people I know, people who know other people I know. People who went to school with friends I know. We all know the same restaurants and bars, frequent the same neighborhoods. I said as much to a friend of mine and he said it was because all people of a certain age group were interested in the same things, restaurants, bars, sports. I don't think so though. I think there are a thousand Seattle's circling in and out of each other. And I can't reach the other ones anymore than they reach mine.
Even less can I reach the other Americas. The realities wrought by geography, society, money, politics, religion, hobbies. I am trapped in my tea shops and cafes, in safe apartments, in secure jobs and nice upper middle class friends, pseudo-intellectuals, people bound to succeed. And so we can't and we don't reach those other Americas. Even I wanted to, how would I ride the rails, attend the most elite of parties? How would I know how to go to other Americas, who would let me in?
Someone told me once that Seattle is a small city. And it is true. I always run into people I know, people who know other people I know. People who went to school with friends I know. We all know the same restaurants and bars, frequent the same neighborhoods. I said as much to a friend of mine and he said it was because all people of a certain age group were interested in the same things, restaurants, bars, sports. I don't think so though. I think there are a thousand Seattle's circling in and out of each other. And I can't reach the other ones anymore than they reach mine.
Even less can I reach the other Americas. The realities wrought by geography, society, money, politics, religion, hobbies. I am trapped in my tea shops and cafes, in safe apartments, in secure jobs and nice upper middle class friends, pseudo-intellectuals, people bound to succeed. And so we can't and we don't reach those other Americas. Even I wanted to, how would I ride the rails, attend the most elite of parties? How would I know how to go to other Americas, who would let me in?
01 August 2011
and the banal
Dryer sheets. So what, really, is the fucking point? Purportedly they keep your clothes from wrinkling or collecting static. Mainly they serve to lend a chemical stink your clothing. Personally I think they are another brilliant marketing scheme. I mean, everyone goes out and spends money on these little sheets of paper and sticks them in the dryer and......well then you get chemically smelling soft clothes.
Needless to say, I don't use them, but I share s dryer with everyone else in the laundromat and the dryer sheets always end up in my laundry. Inevitably Annabel finds them and shreds them and I have a stinky shredded paper mess to clean up.
Needless to say, I don't use them, but I share s dryer with everyone else in the laundromat and the dryer sheets always end up in my laundry. Inevitably Annabel finds them and shreds them and I have a stinky shredded paper mess to clean up.
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