It's Saturday, about 9 pm PST. I take some kind of perverse comfort in the fact that there's still more left to the day than there is at "home", or should I say in New Haven, because it hasn't felt like home in forever. And now, in this zen-retreat of an apartment that Kristin has set up here, is the closest to home it's been since I've been unable to return to my mom's house. We used to get all wasted and cry and go, no really, dude, I love you more than my parents! Now I can see that it's chosen family, all surrogate, in a good way.
Kristin just left to take her friend Kerry home on her scooter - which makes every single event baller, by the way, even just going to Trader Joe's - and we're going to do pedicures and watch movies when she comes back. There's all good words taped up on the walls as I sit here typing, like, what if the best day of your life kept happening over and over? (as Arcade Fire spills through the speakers, the one from the mix, waking up, like new relationships, all cinematic and sweeping) and today we were at a coffeeshop before a meeting, and the headline read Be Prepared To Dig Deeper, which I promptly bought, came home, cut out, and tacked up onto the bulletin board.
Everything here is glittering and amazing, partly because I am all glittery and amazed. My to-do list for after Stacey leaves on Tuesday consists of finding out when a bunch of shows I want to see go on sale and not looking for a job (because I've been remanded to taking a week off, from jobs and apartments and everything) and consuming massive quantities of espresso. (I guess we'll just have to adjust... perfect.) Apparently there's been talk of a "Hi. I live here." scooter ride to celebrate my arrival, and possibly timing it to end at the Lake Union annual festival thing, where there is organized kickball and Harvey Danger. That's just the fucking shit if I ever heard it. And there's all Bumbershoot and Pinback and it's not even fall tour yet...
I've been practicing being specific about my manifestations. When asked what I wanted to pursue for employment, I replied to the effect of wanting a cushy office job where I am Understood and paid a fair wage so that I can afford to Go To Shows and Take Time Off When I Need It (mostly to shoot in-studios for KEXP when they arise) and the like. I don't need to be starving. I need to take care of myself financially so I can do what I love, I don't have to do what I love when I'm in positions where it can't support me financially. Among a variety of other needs that will only manifest if I do the work to specifically manifest them.
For some reason, I keep picturing my car covered in love notes and sunflowers. I don't know why. Maybe because it's coming. Maybe because I've been bombarded by love and flowers thrown out into the Universe from every direction, and then gifts of Love and Welcome from the new people I'm meeting. Like books. And good directions.
This Arcade Fire album is just always so good, when I got to see Bell Orchestre at Firehouse 12 in New Haven I practically shit myself. Max about 50 people there, with Clogs opening (with some guys from the National) and I took all these stellar pictures with everything all reflecting in the walls of the performance studio.
So I'm shooting low but shooting high all the same. The other thing all of that will afford me to do is work on some debt while I stay at Kristin's for a little bit, which will continue to ease the pressure, and then Stage II will involve getting back to starting my continuing education - I'm sure they've got to have some kind of community college here that is along the lines of Gateway where I can keep working on my associate's.
I love sitting in Victrola in the mornings, all out the window, all notebook and deliciousness and a double shot over ice. I love little lights on strings and taping postcards to the walls. We watched movies outside under the space needle last night, all Princess Bride, all schlocky and romantic, and while I'm well aware of my inability to even sniff around anything remotely like dating or relationships, it made me pine and ache a little bit, and I think that's good. The aching keeps me motivated.
There's been talk for tomorrow about the Space Needle, gourmet cupcakes, throwing fish, and a variety of band-name-slash-insane-asylum-qualifying sounding events. Like, "Delicious Panties in ChaCha's New Food Bowls". Things with lusty checkered pasts, people who derive a level of detachment that can only come from reading too many books, mix tapes that leave me on the floor in a puddle (in a good way) and maybe even new heart-shaped tattoos. Maybe.
It's time for the ultimate breaking the rule about listening to a band before you're about to go see the band, which I break but Kristin adheres to, as we prepare to watch Singles with Stacey (because she's never seen it) as we sit in a one bedroom apartment.
In Seattle.
Because I live here now. Hi.
From my new time zone,
Victoria