God dammit if you are a writer in seattle, please hang out with me

THIS IS FROM MY SECOND BOOK, MOTHER

reflections

Leaving seattle, the suns, the clouds

I dream of leaving Seattle, seeing the world, connecting to souls far out and away across the expanse and realizing and no one is different, that we are all a part of the same struggle and praise of whatnot, I dream of leaving and I already miss it. I close my eyes and nostalgia sets in. The clouds cover me and I retreat with every watered-on melancholic citizen here. I am afraid of the sun as much as I love it. It spurs me into states I cannot forever excel in. Am so prone to burn out, fragile flower. Being from California and Hawaii, my soul has been attuned to the light. I took it for granted growing up and walked around the town rotting and melting in milky ways of boredom, heavy monotonous glue oozing on the sidewalk thinking of nothing but spreading myself dead-like through the cracks, gaping at the sky, heavy lethargia. So I fled to drearier places to provoke myself, stew discomfort where the sun would peek a glance much less, a pillow of light soft and nearly forgotten until the day of first spring (that's really almost summertime), where the winds are fierce as greek gods changing the tides upturning the world hues, no more! they say, and there the stroke of light announces the blue bed above. And the moment is glorious, only so because of how long it's been, and because of how long before I have been sitting and wanting it anticipating it's arrival. Oh but then it is gone and I close my eyes again to chase it's wonder, attempt to mimic the energy it gave me--I awoke and felt stupid euphoria and thought everything of its simplicity, told my fellow man, I am doing so well! when he earnestly asked me how are you today! And yes he said, I really like that answer!

And the other thing. To attempt to bring about that feeling of standing in the sun after a stormy year of damp gray is for me to live in the glory of imagination. It is much the same, but perhaps longer lasting, bringing about an independency and power of a lesser god, a man of my own wills rather than an ant tossed about by lightly dripping weather, comparably not violent at all. I awake and, not caring to be out in the miserable air, but so wanting to connect, to be social, to leave the house, make my way to the coffee shop. It makes sense that all the cloudy cities have created these places. Without it we would go stir-crazy, sleep in hazy depression, unaware of anything outside the mire of drowsy retreat. I transport my wills to the book I will write, to an author I've had on my to-read list for ages, I grant myself time to work on my individual. Clouds bring the necessary retreat, in a fashion, mirror the mess inside of us, make us ponder wonder get lost to a point where you must find out where you are in order to get back up and out into reality, stronger this time, you found freedom and light within yourself! You are the sun to this city! You defy the deft heavens! Bask and release, set free and fly!

I miss Seattle. The summer came last summer for three long weeks and when it rained I just stood outside with arms raised outward, strong-armed and battered by the wet wind. I did not move. My cheeks crept up and I dove into my dreams. The sun was just as oppressive as the clouds! It drove me to only action, I stumbled about blinded and merry, too drunk to dream and giving out everything in me till I was an empty shell of slurred nonsense. Action without thought, action, action, thoughtless, thought. Everything is too much, everything is too little.