Thursday, March 29, 2012

Fearless in Seattle late March 2012

This blog entry may confuse, just have fun with it while I cry for joy and sleep at last for hours after a shocking time missing planes, being foolish and far too hopeful, o what a mess of traveling indeed. (I am now safely in Iowa however)....
Grey is my favorite color / I felt so symbolic yesterday / If I knew Picasso / I would buy myself 

a gray guitar and play... I wish I was beautiful... I want to be someone who believes... 

                              lyrics by Counting Crows -

In this grand grey city where men believe they are giants and women tend fire with knives, a visitor dressed in another language arrived from the past.

They'd met before on a myth and legend called The Internet World Wide Web about 12 years earlier, behind an electric blue screen flicking out writethis wet typewriter ribbons, and slammed with an occasional banning. What roisterous banter and A Ray's garden furniture had demanded lines too. The Boater once said he'd visit an' sit some time but obviously grew weary, or sly or just mean again. That's neither there, here nor fair probably but, o well. "Erm... this is leaping too far ahead," (my unidentical twin Xanthe would say).

So, when A Ray met the first two writers from that esteemed community wt in their fine town of near-the-cafe-where-Twin-Peaks-was-filmed, elvish nonsense continued, although May, (all names changed for leeway), beautifully averted disaster with pointed silences or swerve talk. The Boater, (an old cc vagabond and scoundrel) held that dry moments squealed occasionally and far worse.

So, here it is, rather a jumble but we did visit Seattle thrift shops and a goodwill store even if May said it was a wierd thing to do with an out-of-town visitor, (she's much smarter than A Ray or Boater, they have to respect that surely even if they are The Sass Bickersons). 

Here's the latest version of their story, (I edited it again and again, maybe seven times now).

A Whimm Tale of Two Scribe Listers and a Keyboard Boater

Please note this is a fairy-tale, but not about 13 summers nor the faint-hearted or any who disparages secret identities and hero guitarists. Plink. It's also only for grown-ups.

Somewhat inspired by a rather terrifying and amusing, (yes, together) book called mean confession, (pretendGeniuspress 2006) by Dean Strom which I finished today. He's a self-confessed mermaid hunter if you believe the press and how he looks in this drawing (above) of him by an onlooker, but this Very Important Mermaid (VIM) luckily got away this time.

See if you please a place of belong time from now since ago; days of perfume and aromas :- like hot pine resin air in summer, which May told me of at her place when rain thundered and seethed. Then we stopped afternoon by a wicked hillock of cedar bark chipped for mulch, glorious through the open window of The Boater's travelling circus for banned gypsies. 

Such clean air for the delivery. 

And every most later, hyacinths in the princess room where A Ray slept and now wonders what blessings arranged. Her own protector on a small island with an earth floor temple to run, so when she realised this was no ordinary visit she felt glad to know what an empty pottery vase on its side may teach us about approaches. (Place the goodly-sized object where you can see it when approaching a doorway, this ensures proper respect from visitors and yourself).

Catch the smell of snow in the breeze, know it's arriving then - but now 'tis spring for this hemisphere, in the New World.

Find three travellers namely The Boater, May and A Ray on trips to sights, shows then imbibing between, for tums, if you'd like some jolly which each found somewhat. A whirl of activity and views, scattered carefully hereabouts, then rather swished from something spilt heart-wise.

No sleeves are in this story, so there's nothing to peck at on one. "Every daw get out, now." But images of crows were significant as you may see. They may not be counted on for much if you're ignorant, but their drama assists decision-making on walks and they have a beautifully arranged family life. Crows also rid a garden of pests.

Quick, change to light-hearted or good-spirited, now. Start with chocolate and cherry blossoms, Amy's gorgeous chicken masala and parmesan risotto, fresh laundry, ruby grapefruit, carved soap of many descriptions and then, possibly delicious non-smells throughout The Boater's intentions which added fake-light, or feinted at some target or were faint and unreadable.

An unnerving (part-lizard, some say) man, but this apparently kind and helpful Sass-maker, The Boater sometimes disguises himself as a fluff-destroyer, to avoid those who he imagines could smother him. He exists and shall not be quietened easily.

Lovely days floated expansions with our travellers joining dots, a car stereo surged electric ladyland, while icy north-eastern rain cascaded upon freeway rush-hour as far as any sea could have eyes upon it. This for an hour at least, so circle hands swept and numbers appeared significant. A Ray turned into her mermaid while this happened, such dancing possible in dim light only.

A warning was offered silently the day before, interpreted by regarding many crows at various points upon trees or grass. Read the birds like music. A Ray believed when one crow flew towards the vast ocean sound, (including islands below the cliff) and the bird looked back, it was beautiful and also, unattainable, so she should've known later not to believe in dark plans or her unnameable fancies. Directly, the bird looked over its shoulder, to where A Ray and May waited by the old convent, a set of blue rectangles. "Nuns had the best view," May said.

Good or believable theatre tells the truth with more easily accepted costumes and better lighting, the Unfearable Tightness of Needing could be a possible title for this scenario. Role models for older women are often so too dull, really. A Ray stepped out of there some time ago to find a polisher and lost the map back, since she reintended.

So, the large black birds offered the following in their wing noise and silhouettes - Important views including laughter assist, but only genuine improvements shall do and they're easily ignored, better stay true to you throughout.

However that came much later and simultaneously, because this is recall. 

First, Amy shape-shifted to coyote, (we have written proof) and met A Ray, (a visiting stranded mermaid with legs at last functioning at times) while her tiki-protected belongings twirled for collection.

Both listers, these women remember useful favourite dishes, songs or quotations, and how to love under seige, while appreciating nonsense needs its moonbeams. That's background.

A Ray had secretly carried an ironic but painful dark place inside her chest across a vast ocean, then through a gloriously painted city, to where it could be exploded safely, which The Boater seemed to understand. Then she swallowed the sun after a dance journey with Boater and May towards the great sage hills and crested magnificent mountains, (their white and grey startle), then a light-dotted-ceiling tunnel - zoom - the enclosure curved, elegant. Their black vehicle raced into open sky, then over the broad floating bridge of gasps where a famous Japanese artist of antiquity visited in imagery. (Utamaro).

While earlier, a troll under the bridge kept peering further than dust knows. Ideas posed A Ray by the creature's hand over an out-dated trolley from a nightmare better crushed. Boater captured some of her light in his magic apparatus and may not return it, but o those moments and their last. What shoes could be stitched from that shape to walk across continents and oceans, in a flying machine trailing three plumes of good luck to write nothing better.

Save nothing, this was something good.

As it took, they gave. The Boater turned into a lizard at intervals, (previously mentioned). These taniwha safeguard the innocent from their own ridiculousness and may excite prey. A Ray marked these occasions with heat, a cage of light in mind. Warm blooded thoughts of a kinder time when romance could serve more than tarts, (strawberry or lemon custard), but o how memory tricks us. She carries a guardian in any case, no mistaking endurance nor its roar.

A hurdy gurd of nonsense rhymes and thimbles, (kisses some ancient children appreciate to freshly grow a better past then work from there). Yes, they escaped through masses of trees, alder, firs, cedar, redwood, more varieties than ever possible to write in a five second allowance while bumping past in their car-ship, rocky concrete waves and pebbled surf. 

Silkies land near the massive white logs of drag the sign said, but they saw none of them that day just good spinning. 

May planned to plant a blue spruce in front of the pale place somewhat surrounded with sawdust and greenery, where they discussed Orient Rose; and so it is how difficulty eases away towards a drier atmosphere than all these pools of tears, where mistakes are professors.

Cafes named after letters of the alphabet and many splendoured slipped between two forgetful waitresses, (the third may appear at some other time). The Boater helpfully embroiderd gaps with stories, fancies and outright diversionary tactics during refreshment. A Ray fell in love with him. Words are heart hooks. She bled and weakened.

Now, picture the following - Boater, A Ray and May chose well-made tea tring, coffee zing, rhyming brews. One china cup each, with a virtue painted upon it. A Ray held Patience with some disbelief but no accidents til later, May lifted Prudence easily as if she'd always been there knowing so much silently, while Boater kept re-reading his painted cup, then chuckling. Something in the word, Temperance reminded him of a time? Those lines invented to cover a temper, (tantrums need occasional erasure) but most of this is a true story and like a car personally owned, things need fixing. 

A Ray wrote letters she'll never send and sulked a little, since he is (wasshisname's) busy mending leaks. One from a piercing statement alone as a twig on a path about to be stepped on, 'How dare you make me love you then behave like such a puddle of mud.' These she hid. 

This is the lesson - people from different places even when they speak almost the same language, they can easily misunderstand each other but love stays for always now ever time and noodles.

One sip after another, this vessel of goodhearts, accompanied by various animal familiars and their knowledge of recesses, catastrophes and messages.


I'm a stranded mermaid with enough hope to lift a fifty story building so someone could sweep beneath it. We do not need crumbs or fragments of what-could-have-been. 

This story perhaps the only way forward, since I'm on a quest to teach the world and myself about poetry, love, trees and travel and although certain nonsense is necessary, I'm hoping to rediscover more clarity in Iowa. Spare, clean language can be a kind companion, a guide dog out of this impossible wish. 

Do not worry about me anyone, I am fine. Would love to hear from you.

I deeply appreciate everything people did for me in Seattle, thanks.

Yes, thanks Seattle, Dean, Amy, Connor, Jimi Hendrix, The Wonderful Fishmongers at Pike Markets who Throw Fish and Shout then Echo Each Other, The Seattle Troll, Many Spectacular Views of Beauty such as Urban and Other Natural Phenomena, The Only Airport Agent who was truly kind and helpful to me, Branden Knight (out of about five of them at first who were spectacularly lax one after the other) when I missed my plane by four minutes or so, (they were just closing the gate) because the wheelchair guy just took his own sweet time and various other obstacles of humanity's need to do their own free-will-break around me, and thanks Aphrodite (if it was her, Goddess of Love) for reminding me I can certainly fall, fearless and deeply. So glad. 

Just as I typed that penultimate line, by the way, in Atlanta Airport, a bright light hit me side on, I looked over and the rising sun was glowing fierce orange through a mere slit of window to spill all over me typing, then in seconds it was gone so it only shone for the fall line.  

Fearless in Seattle.

It really was a fairy story, with one of those old-fashioned not too happy endings, I suppose though I wish with all my heart it was different.

I stepped from the ocean to this broad land of sparks. Here walking with legs afire and many wheels yet before a return home.

Thanks for reading my blog please feel free to comment here or in faceberk. x

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