The Death March and its Discontents. And so we wandered off across the known universe, from the venerable old apartment building said to be haunted by spirits of malefactors and ne’er-do-wells down sunny but chilly streets toward the market, in order to buy dried cherries and meet up with R—— and M—– and their baby girl. Had a nice catch-up, wandered off once more past spices and shops to more shops, not forgetting the fascist paper store and the fascist architectural book store. So many clean lines.
Burrito’d up and continued up the hill to old haunts, passing through Glenn Richards (duh) along the way to Vivace (I started typing ‘Victrola’) for a quick coffee followed by a stroll around the ridiculously nice park over the reservoir. Flashes of city life starting to really do my head in. Melancholy setting in, but not the horrible kind, just everyday melancholy, which is really sadness tinged with joy, because it’s something like saudade, which is all about feeling regret for beautiful things which one knows will never return to us. The day was hot by now.
Dinner was a loud affair, dark as well. Food interesting, plenty wine. Really great to catch up with the people there, although everything was just killing me. Having lived there. Having left. Missing being there, knowing that being there would inevitably become one or more forms of a drag, grooving on the strong sense of invention, hilarity, feelings of constituting a community or gang of communities whose collective identity is a thing called ‘Seattle’, simultaneously being fairly horrified at the vulgar glitter and OTT ostentation of damn near everything and everyone within range. I certainly felt like a scuzz, but in a nice way — that’s its charm. Oh, Seattle, I love you, you lockjawed peroxided snakeyes-lookin’ yahoo glued to a cellphone, cigarette, coffee, one or more of the above. It’s a good place to be neither from or in; but best experienced standing nearby and admiring, while deploring.
Exhaustion set in.
