Everything Happens for a Reason

Saturday morning, I woke up in downtown Seattle and needed to get to Capitol Hill by 11. This distance is walkable. I've done it many times. But I had a heavy backpack with me and had just spent the night in a half-sleep daze on an air mattress, so I decided to bus it. My plan was also to get to the cafe early to get some work done on my research project.

I got to the bus stop, looked at the timetable, and saw that the bus was due to arrive at any minute. Because of my previous experience with Seattle Public Transportation, I believed the timetable. When the bus didn't come for ten minutes, I thought, "Oh well, maybe there was a mistake. The bus will come eventually, I just have to be patient." Twenty minutes later, as the clock inched closer to 11, I was in that weird in-between time where I could have walked and been late or taken the bus and been on time. "Oh, I'll just wait. It's bound to show up. It's been forty five minutes already." At around 11:10, I was thinking, "Screw you, Seattle Public Transportation. How DARE you?! After years of loyal patronage and bragging about how MY city's public transportation system is better than YOURS, THIS is how you repay me?!?"

So I started walking. I was supposed to meet some friends on the very end of Capitol Hill at a cafe. While walking, I saw a bus that went in vaguely the same direction I was going, so I hopped on. It then veered off the path I wanted in front of another cafe I frequent. My friends called me to find out where I was and told me they would just drive down and meet me there. So we met at said other cafe, whose upstairs seating, wifi, and soy on the bar make up for the absolutely awful music the baristas choose to play.

Coffee with friends went well. I calmed down a bit and felt better. After a twelve ounce americano, my friends said goodbye and I decided I needed a bang trim. I started walking in the direction of the salon, past a handful of stores on the 500 block of Pine. I glanced sideways into the window of Spine and Crown, a used book store, and stopped short. There, displayed in the window, was The Literary Criticism of Marshall McLuhan.

Now, to some, okay, most everyone, the compiled essays of Professor McLuhan concerning the works of Joyce, Pound, and Poe that "embrace the whole continuum of human experience that [goes] into the art of printed creation and that [goes] on in the aesthetic assumptions and psychological biases of the reading public" doesn't mean much and certainly isn't very "cool". But this book is exactly, exactly what I need for my research project. I had never even heard of the name Marshall McLuhan before this summer's Institute, and now here he was, writing about books and authors I love, circling around a subject I am focusing on in my research. I rushed in and bought it, exclaiming to the booksellers how they made my day. Strike that, my life.

And had I not waited for the bus, gotten angry, decided to walk, taken that other bus, and been dropped off at secondary cafe, I would have never found it.

I Thought the Walrus Was Paul?

I absolutely love the interplay between image and sound in this video. The sound is more than words. It's associations, contexts, history, celebrity, giant concepts and personal meaning. The ideas are all connected using beautiful, crazy-cool images that make sense while challenging the imagination.

However, in the song "Glass Onion" from The White Album, the lyrics are as follows:
"I told you about the walrus and me, man/ You know we're as close as can be, man/Well here's another clue for you all/ The walrus was Paul". So the title of this piece is really the only thing that doesn't connect in this beautiful work.

Wish List

This is at the top.

pARTy!!

July 2nd was the night of the long-awaited Art Party. Before leaving for my friend's apartment, I witnessed a freak rainstorm. Torrential downpour, some may call it, complete with thunder and lightening. I threw open my windows to let the scent of fresh rain in. No matter how hard companies like Johnson & Johnson try, a lab cannot recreate the smell of rain. There is some palpable about it. Something that sticks to the back of your tongue and presses against your eyelids.

I walked to my friend's apartment on the other side of the campus. The passing shower left a charge in the air. Summer storms are possibly the best kind of storms. My hair feels like it carries a halo of static electricity. The air is crackly, but the ground is damp. The clouds act as a giant filter in the sky, making every surrounding color brighter and more vibrant. In this kind of weather, if I bit into one of the many flowers dotting the campus, its nectar would gush over my hands and chin and stain my skin a Day-Glo pink.

My friend had covered her apartment with newspaper. People made art with paint, glue, stamps, stencils, Exacto knives, crayons, pizza boxes, blocks of wood, construction paper, plastic cups, envelopes with sticky backs, black-and-white pictures of unicorns, their bodies. We listened to 60's girls bands and ate taffy, crackers, and an expired key lime pie. We saw a transformer go KA-BAM outside the window. We thought someone was celebrating the 4th early.



P(ART)Y was a success. A communal piece of art was started. A big, green piece of construction paper hangs on my friend's wall which now contains a drawing, handprints, a small clipping, and writing. It is an evolving piece and will make an appearance at the next event. Another friend discovered block-printing. He became a one-man printing press, stamping the canvas paper over and over with his totally wild and beautiful image. Below, his original creation is on the left. My contribution is on the right.


The thunder storm started up again, early in the morning. I woke to what sounded like someone dropping a piece of sheet metal off of the roof.

To Market, To Market

When I was young(er), this was one of my favorite books:


While in Europe, I became obsessed with markets. I went practically every weekend and on most days of the week. I liked the idea of supporting independent vendors, and usually everything found was a bargain. Some of my favorites finds: a green satchel purse with drawstring close, cell phone pocket, and butterfly decoration (£12), a cinched-waist black and gold dress with a peacock on the skirt (£5), a peach-colored Trovata trench (£10), a set of six old-fashioned keys (£5), and a brown jumper dress with a sash and buttons (£6), to name a few.

I have been wanting to visit the Fremont Market for ages, but never got around to it. I resolved that I would this weekend. I was not expecting much, as I was really spoiled in London as far as markets go. But I was pleasantly surprised. There was a good mix of art, clothing, antiques, and food. The antique dealers had some really crazy items (an framed embroidery that said "Seattle", which I really, REALLY felt I needed in my life), and the prices were fair for most of them, considering how unique they were. The clothing stalls were mishmashed collections and vintage and thrift. There was also belly dancing and music:



My favorite stall sold a collection of random bits and pieces from the past. Typewriter keys, cardboard postcards, porcelain doll heads, monocles, watch faces, death notices, uniform name patches, and old Victorian cartoons warning of the dangers of conceit, among other things. I did not take any pictures because I wasn't going to buy anything, but I loved the arrangement of the items in no particular order, and the missing thread that linked all of the items together. I don't know what I would do with most of it, but I wanted it all, probably for its novelty.

Hopefully soon I will be able to visit more markets. There are several all over Seattle every weekend, and hopefully I will make the entire round before the end of the summer.

A New View; Pale and Proud

In line with my on-going "live-in-the-moment-explore-your-own-background" way of living maintenant, it is a thrill when I find a new spot I have yet to visit. Somehow, this became true of Volunteer Park. On Saturday last, after an iced americano at Joe Bar [Broadway and Harvard Exit-GO THERE], Julie and I decided to walk around the park.

The park itself is beautiful. Rolling grassland, hidden trails, ponds, fountains, sculpture, and the Asian Art Museum. We climbed to the top of the old water tower and saw a new view of the Seattle skyline.


We passed a couple of groups practicing what looked to be a new trend in exercise, much the way yoga and tai chi have moved out of the studio and into public parks. One group consisted of about ten adults, briefcases in tow, dancing the can-can and doing pinwheels. The second marched to the militaristic beat of Abba's "Dancing Queen" and twirled white plastic rifles. It wasn't until later we discerned that these were not Exercise With Accessories Weekend Classes, but rather that these groups were probably practicing for the Pride Parade.


And then an ice cream truck whistled by. Who can resist ice cream that matches your outfit?


Later in the day, I decided more park pondering was needed. It was hot, so I decided to wear shorts. I have not worn shorts since the fourth grade, unless tights or leggings were involved in the outfit. Dukes of Hazzard, Nair commercials, and fashion trends have done nothing to alter my always-below-the-knee lifestyle. Perhaps it is the confidence I gained from studying abroad, or perhaps it is my new resolution to be creative with old pieces of clothing. Anyhow, I ventured out of my apartment wearing a pair of Dickie's mailman uniform shorts. And it wasn't half bad.

Except that I am beyond pale. The moniker of my makeup color is "transparent". But I have embraced my paleness. I accept it as a part of who I am. Plus, staying out of the sun helps me towards my goal of staying young forever (not justing looking young, staying young). So when a car almost ran me over as I was crossing the street, the first thought that came into my head was, "How could you not have seen me?! I am a beacon of light in this already bright world. My legs could be used in air-traffic control if enough cartwheeling is involved."

The park was lovely. The grass in the shade was cool and tickled my feet. I gripped bunches of it between my fingers, listening to the slidey-squeaky sounds I made by slowly lifting my palms from the ground. I think toes make for a nice canvas.

The Cure

The cure to beat Imposter Syndrome? Put yourself out there and prepare to be judged. I decided to submit a piece of writing for a project in class. I didn't think it was necessarily "creative" or worthy of note, but the art of the word is the only thing I feel I really know. The piece was well received, beyond my expectations.

The 30 at 3:26 pm

There is a unique sensation when the bus you have been waiting for finally arrives, comparably only to visiting the restroom while at a restaurant and having your food appear while you were gone.

The bus rolls up, along with the familiar sound of wheels crunching over pavement, brakes whistling, and the release of air as the front end sags and the door swings open. I notice that the rear-view mirrors that hang off the front make the bus look like a beetle, the mirrors resembling feelers. But this bus does not scuttle, slide, or scurry like an insect. It lumbers, drags, and sweats smog.

I climb inside the Beetle Bus and scout for a place to sit. Literally all of the passengers have a seat to themselves. I follow suit and sit on one of the empty inward-facing bench seats in the back.

At the next stop, a girl and who I assume is her boyfriend (judging by the copious groping I witnessed occurring at the bus stop) enter and look for a place to sit. Her eyes flick over the single seats, finally and begrudgingly resting on the open space on the bench seat next to me. They sit, my side rising slightly as they do.

The Beetle Bus rolls on. There is silence.

“You got me some weird-ass shit,” the girl says. I look and see that she is referring to an opened pink package on her lap, some kind of present, it seems.

I do not hear her boyfriend’s response as the bus has rolled up to the next stop. A two-seat, front-facing space becomes available. Like buzzards, or perhaps fan girls because of the lack of preemptive circling and favor of an immediate ground attack, the couple takes the empty seats opposite me.

My ego is slightly bruised.

I can feel the engine whirring up through the soles of my feet. The sensation stops at my ankles. The shadows cast by the trees we pass dapple the entire interior of the bus. Floors, seats, faces. The window is warm. At night, I can usually see my reflection in it, layered over landmarks. The Space Needle splicing my face, the neon signs using my skin as a canvas.

“Did you see that shit?! Aw shit! That shit was hella funny!”

It is taking all of my energy not to snap shut into iPod escapism.

My eyes try to eat up details to distract me. The way riders’ bodies lean forward before popping back when the bus grinds to a halt, as if they were extensions of the bus itself. The pull-cord on my side is silver. On the other it is black. There are only seven ads in the bus. I don’t have my glasses with me so I cannot see all of them, but I know one is informing me that I can change the world somewhere between college graduation and starting a career. The two fluorescent strip lights in the front are not on, but the rest lining the interior are. The driver wears a blue baseball cap and a vacant look. Is it legal to wear a hat while operating government property? Doesn’t this obstruct his vision? Can’t sunglasses serve the same purpose?

Before I had the chance to let my mind spiral into scenarios rivaling Mad Max, I pull the cord to request my stop. The muted ding sounds as the bus swipes into the side of the street. I exit, thanking the bus driver. He thanks me back. For what, I’m not sure. Perhaps for not using the word “shit” every twelve seconds.

My feet hit the sidewalk. I am wearing thin-soled shoes, so I can feel almost every grain of concrete as I walk on the solid, unmoving ground. I turn to see the bus veer off. On the back, there is an ad with a man waving. I resist the urge to wave goodbye to the Beetle Bus, that cavernous creature that picks up and deposits people not exactly but at least within walking distance of where they need to be. An interim space between spaces. The oft-neglected, under-appreciated vehicle, because when you are taking public transportation, it is most definitely the destination that matters, not the journey.