Jul
14
Sleep eludes me these days. I spend too much time thinking about sacking out on a beach in Florida armed with a vodka gimlet, a cheap paperback, and a bikini that saw its best days in the late 1990s. I suspect I’ll be on an airplane very soon to visit.
I’ve grown accustomed to my tiny treehouse in Seattle. I’m not in such a hurry to leave, anymore. There’s something moving around on my deck right now. I am hoping it’s a raccoon and not a clown.
Frequently I steal away from the writing I’m supposed to be finishing to go to Green Lake. Lately it’s been 70 degrees, sun shining on the water, just perfect. I spent an extra half hour watching the ducks get all pissed off at a chocolate Lab playing fetch in the shallows. This was possibly the happiest doggie on the planet that day.
There were about a million turtles, and I saw some trout that were just freaking enormous. I haven’t been fishing since David was alive. I like watching the old men fish. I miss the old black guys I’d sometimes stop and talk with in New York, fishing along the East River. I used to run north, behind Gracie Mansion, up to this pier. And I’d sit for awhile on the pier with them and then either run or walk back, depending on how my knees were holding up.
The summer I left, 2004, when I knew my days in the city were numbered, I ran it every day. Sometimes twice a day. I had just quit smoking for the last time and I felt like I wanted to run out of my skin.I ran so far and so long with my ancient white brick iPod and one single playlist that I completely unbalanced my play counts in iTunes to this day. That was a good summer, and even though I still miss New York, it was good for me to get out. I was worried I was in a rut. Nothing was changing fast enough for me. Everyone was sad. I didn’t want to be sad anymore, and as long as I stayed there I would never get enough distance to get over what had happened to us.
I sold a short story recently, about that terrible time.
Selling that story to Random House made me go looking for the other entries I wrote over those days. I took them down shortly after; they were too real, too raw, too revealing. I have mixed feelings about selling this particular story.
Anyway, the East River, New York, that summer. My apartment was not in great shape. Entire swaths of plaster were peeling off the walls. I redid the walls in the bedroom and kitchen, patching the walls and repainting. As I wondered how the hell I could manage the living room, my next door neighbor stuck a note under my door asking to buy the place.
So I moved to Seattle. To this tiny townhouse in upper Queen Anne. I am surrounded by Craftsman houses and incredible, exploding gardens. Nothing is manicured here, it’s nothing like the neat little rows of tulips marching appropriately down Park Avenue. Here, it’s explosions of lavender and cabbage roses, spilling over the sidewalks. Moss gardens on giant boulders along the road. The flower mayhem, it’s incredible. I love the flowers.
When I drive down Queen Anne Hill towards downtown, the road crests over Puget Sound, and if I keep the windows and sunroof open on the Jag I can almost smell the ocean. I like getting stuck on the drawbridges all over the city. I like to sit in my car and listen to music and watch the boats on the water.
It’s restful.
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5 Responses to “One AM”
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Whoa, you have been in Seattle five years? How the heck did that happen? I’m glad it suits you.
I’ve missed your writing.
I have also missed your writing. Random House? Way to go, lady!
Yay for short story sale!
Congrats on the story sale, Sara.