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Posted on 2008.10.20 at 01:27
on tuesday, in the span of 3 hours, i managed to spill a bottle of sparkling water in my bed, step squarely into my tv dinner, and lock myself out of my room in my towel. also, when i tried to pick up a prescription, the pharmacy told me i was no longer covered under my health insurance. yes, when i let my thoughts paddle furiously upstream, my tangible world tends to fall apart too. and these events snowballed nicely into a full-blown anxiety attack that included treats such as uncontrollable crying, tightening of the chest, and nausea. luckily, it was eventually mellowed out by an obscene amount of olympia genuine draft, the honeyed vocals of sharon jones, and the oddly encouraging words of a friend:

you've got to make your shit work for you.

shit's not working for me at work. the beige file cabinets, the cliched shiny friday donuts, the sheer number of black slacks in the office on any give day, have become too much to take. i've also learned that wills, trusts, collections, leases, prenuptial agreements—they're all the glorified pushing of money from one person to another, and ultimately one and the same. i imagine the attorneys schlepping wheelbarrows overflowing with gold bricks and rubber-banded stacks of cash around the office. everything is transactional, even our verbal exchanges: how-are-you-good-how-are-you.

i got weepy as i explained all of this to an old professor of mine over pumpkin spice lattes. she doesn't think i'm unreasonable for being unable to find redeeming qualities in working at a law firm. (sidenote: she says she often tells her students about her unwavering idealist. that's me!) she also thinks my temptations to go back to the city would be running in the wrong direction; she sees me out in the county. and she's right. for what i care about, i am right now in the perfect place.

and tonight on my walk home from a pizza date, i kind of fell in love with bellingham all over again. as i walked past that big welcome to bellingham sign on state street, i remembered how i used to watch the bay from cold storage's webcam when i lived in seattle, and how i missed the slightly brighter colors, the slightly colder winters, and the exponentially higher quality of life.

derrick jensen says:

Posted on 2008.08.25 at 22:28
"busy-ness is poison to creativity, and poison to spirituality, and poison to living a full life. i am one of the most prolific serious writers alive today, and part of the reason is that i spent so much of my twenties doing not much of anything, if you look at it from a production standpoint, but doing a lot, if you look at it from the perspective of trying to find out who i am and what i love. getting grounded. and that took a lot of time, a lot of time spent sitting by a river reading, or taking walks, or sometimes watching baseball."

yes.

Posted on 2008.06.29 at 16:10
you made a metaphor about your own hands and calluses and i was proud like a mother watching her son hit a homerun in little league. but now i'm thinking what happened was the phenomenon of shakespeare and monkeys. you talk a lot and once in a while your lexicon is bound to catch up with poetry. you told me you were disinterested. dis.interested. this is a whole new idea of like attracting like. we both have to be the one that leaves first. so all that's left standing is a baseball and a bobbypin in the corner of the floor. the thing is you have to believe in the details to be that something inside it. and you are so logical, so statistics-driven, but when i ask why the oceans don't fall off the earth, don't peel back like a sheet, you scoff at me. if i was to attempt to be literal i would say something like this: you make it easy for me to smile at the boys in boundary bay.

Posted on 2008.05.16 at 14:26
at midnight, the tang of broken berries, stirred-up gravel, and even a bit of baby shampoo hangs in the air on state street. it smelled like camping, like god behind the ears, like the sweet release of the city. it was quiet. i counted six cars (and one train) that passed during my half-hour shuffle home. and i couldn't help but do a little dance around the bend when the trees parted and the ocean and stars gleamed through. yes, this is the city of shiny things and shiny people. as if everything's polished by something intrinsic and invisible. this is the city where people lean in closely: pedestrians talking to drivers at stoplights, canvassers resting their heads against the co-op, me, over the balcony, peering out to see the herons in the morning. this is god's country. and i've come home.

Posted on 2008.04.26 at 22:36
if melancholy were a song, it would be iron and wine's passing afternoon.

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goodnight, goodnight.


locked in and hopelessly fighting

Posted on 2008.04.24 at 19:46
you're the type of people who can sit on benches with beat-up suitcases, wear grandfatherly shoes, and have it be dapper. but i picture myself doing and wearing such dandy things, and it feels too carefully considered. and what does it mean if i like the decemberists? that my toes are curled around the edge of the first day day of my life. the smallest things can make want to try on the practical one last time. like the too-tight pants i keep in my closet that only take up space. i don't have the capacity for it, and i sure don't have the taste. in 1967, raoul vaneigem wrote, nowadays, ambition and the love of a job well done are the indelible mark of defeat and of the most mindless submission. i couldn't agree more. my sweet little anarchist heart is beating louder these days, and quickens upon hearing pro-leisure and anti-work sentiments alike. hipsterly, it goes gaga over what bob dylan has to say about poets, that they don't necessarily write words on paper. but still,

weialala leia
wallala leialala

Posted on 2008.04.18 at 11:01
i suppose i should play this like a chess piece, be happy it makes it easier to leave, but it still stings that to you, i’ve been demoted to a two-day piece of fish on the first day. or whatever that saying is. i didn’t mean to invade, perhaps i’ve made myself too at home in you. by anne lamott’s definition of home (where when you show up, they have to let you in) i guess you obliged, but do not worry, i will not ask again.

i’m on the train. rushing by water and boxcars alike. at the station, there was a group of seniors headed for vancouver. one perky old woman in a fanny pack was talking about a friend of hers whose husband was in the hospital for a heart attack. the friend is behind in house payments because she doesn’t know how to write a check. that fragile, egg-like kind of dependency is such a foreign antibody. to trust that someone will forever show up, keep the ball smooth and rolling, and sign, sign, sign the checks (or for that matter, even keep breathing) is well, kind of like living in a constant state of jumping off the dock—exhilarating with when it works out with maybe a little saltwater in the mouth, but definitely no barnacle scrapes to the feet.

Posted on 2008.04.13 at 22:46
i bought a harmonica at the skagit valley co-op. because it felt right and because baby, the times they are a-changin'. i like the feeling of holding cold metal between my lips. and it's instant gratification at its best. now i just need to remember to move the harmonica and not my mouth. and the farmer's market was a big patchwork within itself, with no skinny jeans anywhere. everyone stood around making music and reaching and pushing tangles back behind their ears. you told me bellingham missed me, but i really think you made yourself into a city. i think we'd be good together. we both like the smell of campfires, and well, what else do two wanders really need?

oh, and universe? i'd like to order one of these, please! :

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you will make it up, the pain —buddy wakefield

Posted on 2008.04.08 at 20:52
Current Mood: relaxedrelaxed
if god offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose, the colors of your soul are eggshell, slate, and calamine. what i remember about that night, is that magic is not only possible, but probable. and that you will have intimacies that i can only observe from the roadside. like a lonely nebraskan selling pies on the interstate watching car after car drive by. yet i know you are not my jordan catalano. you will never celebrate the summer solstice or grow your own peas. you will never be disheveled enough, never be satisfied by anything not bathed in glamour. so why am I so happy? why do I keep breathing in the white of the sky and swallowing stars? why is the world the auditory equivalent of the caramelized light that pours from a lit up church steeple on a rainy night?

Posted on 2008.03.26 at 22:17
i'm starting to think those ecstatic persian poets were not faking their glitter-dipped declarations. i've been feeling an energizing cool, and what's more: it's been semi-consistent! i've made peace with leaving. now i know for sure that that different expressions can come from the same core (like pink ladies and red delicious. you can be pink lady). and that's okay. we thrive in different climates. but i love you as much as when we shared the same tree. i'm looking forward to having a span where i can throw time as hard as i can without it hitting a proverbial monday. three beers today, if that tells you anything. it tasted like old books, like delilah sipping secrets from subterranean mud. lovelovelove.


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