Let Me "Eat" All Night In Your Soul Kitchen

 It's so great, you know?
I can eat whatever the hell I want!
Because I do see
Starting in a month
when the real world begins
I will be eating about seven meals a week
maybe
if i'm lucky
so
let the feasting commence
before the famine
I want olives!  and bread!
I want dates, cheese, and grapes
load the table with the finest wines
and herbs and oils
and vinaigrettes!
we'll do as the romans
we'll eat till we're sick
we'll make love
we'll pass out
and we will feast all over again
Huzzah!

  

Personal Savior

[I planned on blogging much more about my trip to Seattle.  Truth turned out to be that I wrote so much I couldn’t keep track of what to share.  And when I finally did get it all out on paper, I felt to write further was too tiring.  Here is my current update]---

I hear Sarah playing “Gloria” by Patti.  It echoes down the hall to play in my room.
G-L-O-R-I-A

So I am moving.  I plan to move by the end of August. 
I am all sorts of scared.
But I want nothing more than to walk right into the mouth of my fears to be swallowed and spat back out when my monster realizes I am stronger than it.  As fearful as I am, I am so glad for this chance to be afraid.  I’ve not felt this alive in quite some time.

So much is being created in my mind. 
I have checklists. 
I have all sorts of sorting.
I am going to have to go through my entire life of things. 
I am establishing myself, trying hard not to get distracted by those in fear of losing me.  They might be losing me in shell, yes.  But my shell has to go wandering out in search of my greater self – my essence – my spirit.  They are separated right now; I have to go find it. 

It’s okay to lose me in shell, it is just my exterior. 
Do they not know they lost my interior long ago? 
Why was there no funeral then?
I’ve been gone for so long, they don’t see.
I’ve been in my purgatory, about to enter the next life.
I am soon to give birth to my own being.  Just like God through Christ.  The story is not different.  I see I am one of my own Gods and certainly my only real savior. 
It’s time for the ultimate sacrifice. 
The baring of the cross upon my own back.
It’s time to die in order to save myself.  

"Falling" In Love

This morning Sabrina and I went to the bakery down the road for a pastry.  I got a nut-hearty scone and small coffee.  I believe the scone was on the “healthier” side of the scale in terms of pastries.  It was delicious but I only enjoyed two bites before saving the rest in my bag for a time I might be hungrier.  My appetite wasn’t strong and I knew I might enjoy it the next morning.  I finished the coffee.  Naturally.

We drove to a waterfall that powerfully fell between rocks and trees, showing me the beauty of a different part of this city.  As we drove there we were surrounded by lots of gorgeous greens that grew tall beneath the gray Seattle sky.  I enjoyed the overcast and cooler weather today. 

I wore a blue-gray onesy : spaghetti-strap top connected to matching shorts.  I bought it yesterday.  Underneath were silver-gray tights, gray wool socks, and my leather hiking boots.  I suppose I subconsciously intended to match the sky and scenery around me.  Light on the makeup.  No shower.  Grunge and chill.

The little area where the falls were reminded me a lot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, the mountains that have won my heart during the past ten years.  Very “cabin-friendly”, holding small convenience stores and lodge-like buildings.  So cute.  The city seems to have everything I love – urban life, surrounding water, woods, and mountains.  Don’t forget those mountains!  

I slept 14 hours last night.   I ended up passing out due to a “drugged” feeling and snoozed until mid-morning.  I had plenty of energy to continue on with the day.  It was Sunday and I love my Sundays.  We drove to Fremont, passing a large “troll” carved into stone under a bridge.  Eerie and delightful.  We tasted all sorts of free samples of organic dark chocolate at a chocolate store.  Despite my lack of appetite, I enjoyed it. 

Afterward we walked to the Vintage Mall, which was a major highlight.  Jam-packed with all sorts of artifacts from various decades.  Oh me, oh my!  Right up my alley.  I could have stayed in there for hours and bought everything they had.  I knew I wanted more time in there than we’d get for today so I purposefully didn’t look too hard to avoid getting attached.  I did buy one thing, though, amongst all the records, shoes, clothes, glasses, furniture, and knick-knacks – a book of lost writings by Jim Morrison. 
$7.00
Short little writings.  I love it. 
One of the many things Patti Smith and I have in common is our love, admiration, and appreciation for Jim.  The book was a must and came in perfect timing.  I didn’t want to part from the store for my imagination went wild searching through what many would consider junk.  I left a pair of vintage glasses that were $15.00.  I only wanted to leave with one item today and it had to be the book.  I cannot wait to return tomorrow to purchase trinkets for myself and for people that I love whom will also appreciate such things.  I will take the #28 bus from downtown because I will not have a car.  I intend to buy stamps and postcards while close to Pike Place Market … my little haven on the shore. 

We finished the day at a vegan restaurant in Fremont that was utterly delicious.  Michele and I split each other’s dishes.  Both sandwiches.  I liked hers best.  Oh … and sweet potato fries.  Yum!  But I continue not being all that hungry so I saved the remainder of my meal for tomorrow along with my scone.

When we returned home I watched some interviews of Patti Smith that Sarah had sent to me.  Ms. Smith has been my guide and godmother on my trip.  I continue to get to know my un-met friend.  She was and still remains a wild piece of artwork.  So wonderfully herself with zero apologies.  I feel I am like that in my own way and continue learning how.  She helps to teach me. 

There is always something to do.  Everyone that I have had conversations with that live here tell me the same thing.  I explain to them that my home is back East and continue with saying, “I’m thinking of moving here.”  But they each do the same thing as I try expressing this.  I can only say, “I’m thinking of----“ before they interrupt with … “Do it.  Just do it.”  They can sense what is in my heart.  I like their validation.  It’s hard not to already move here in my mind and in many ways I have.  And in many ways I already did before I even arrived.  So much of my actions at home before now were laced with – “well, this will be the last time I do _____.”  Fill in the blank. 

It’s odd to be in this weird limbo of not knowing where I belong.  I don’t exactly feel like I live here (obviously because I don’t) but home feels just as foreign.  What the hell will I do when I actually return?  Will it be a major blow?  I really anticipate nothing else except the warm but illusive feelings of familiarity.  Of course that will be there no matter where you are from.  More than anything it frightens me to go back.  I have run to every corner of that town like a rat in a cage.  There is nowhere else I can escape to.  There are only so many times I can drive to the lake in the countryside.  All of those streets I’ve ridden on from loneliness, boredom, and lack of fulfillment make me want to hurl.  Not just when traveled on but when thought of from my little, wonderfully chilly room here in the city.  So many roads here I’ve never met.  So many faces and names to get to know.  Out of that goddamn Bible-Belt. 
 

I don’t exactly know what I am looking for other than art.  I’ve done my best to create that for myself in Virginia but with every aspect of my life there I feel like I’ve done all I can do and this is where my feeling of dying comes from.  I don’t want to die.  I want to live.  Not that I fear death, I am just thankful for my life.  I am thankful for who I am.  I am discovering this and cherish it.  Sometimes, you know, the biggest changes come from desperation to survive – in every sense of the word.  And I will freely and openly admit that I am fucking desperate. 

I have learned something about myself and about life within the last couple of years.  Details do not matter much to me and “being in control of everything” really isn’t the ultimate goal within growth.  I have no fucking clue as to how I would create a life for myself out here and it really is OK.  The details, like I mentioned, don’t matter in this very moment.  I trust life will show me how.  All I really know is that I’d like a life out here in the Pacific North West for at least a little while.  That’s all I need to get started.  And what I also know is that I would like to surround myself with artists so that I can learn from them and share with them.  I just want art in my life – period.  Not because I feel it is outside of me and need to get to where it is but because I know it is inside of me and want to give birth where it can grow and be nurtured. 

I have had the absolute privilege of getting to meet and know some incredible artists from various places this past year.  I think about these people while I am here and could cry from the abundance of gratitude for me and for my life taking me to these places and people.  I don’t know about spiritual blessings but I do feel goddamn fortunate.  They have everything to do with my journey.  I love these gifts in my life and look forward to what else and who else will find me on my trail.

I wonder who will join me as I travel.

∆


[What's Playing In My Ear: Black Wave - THE SHINS]

I woke this morning to thunder.  I rose and gazed into the mirror.  I was wearing the face of someone who had been crying many tears the night before.  Some strange invisible wall has been in the process of being torn down within the interiors of my being since my visit here in Washington.  I’ve been crying at the drop of a hat and it feels so freeing.  I waited for the bus today and as I leaned myself against the wooden bench my tears began to flow.  I didn’t exactly know why but didn’t deny myself of it.  It was a good thing.  I am just so thankful and am so … everything.  I’m also nothing.  I’m within my own category of feeling.  I am in life.


Everyday I start at “Empire” - the espresso bar down the street.  Quickly I have become a regular.  I get an iced Americano and take it outside for a smoke and write.  I’ve been journaling constantly and have been finding myself late to getting to my day’s plans because a lot of my attention is going to the blank pages.  I see so many words written on those pages before I even begin to write. 


I wrote this in my journal at Empire:


"I just can’t not write.  I hear words in my head constantly.  Sometimes more than other times.  These words are inspired words, inspired rhymes.  If I don’t write them down my head feels as though it will explode.  Most of the words don’t even make it to paper because I am not fast enough at getting to the pen.  I love it despite not knowing where they come from.  Some people hear melodies and have to compose.  I am so glad that they do.  Do they know that they influence me?  I connect to songs sometimes more than I connect to people themselves.  A simple line can spark an entire day for me.   And what I love so much about those lines or melodies is that the artist wrote it based on what inspired them.  It may mean something completely different from what it means to me but it still births the same kind of creation.  It’s so beautiful.


I walk throughout my entire day recalling lines that seem appropriate for what I am experiencing.  I recite them in my head as though it is my holy text.  And it gets me to thinking – we each have our own religion.  We may even each have our own personal “God”.  I don’t know what God is but I know I come alive through the work of other artists and in turn create my own “holy text”.  They are my prophets.  They are my gods.  They are my religion.

Everything inspires me, not just music.  I will wake to a cloudy day, as I did today, and based on the lighting that comes into my window, I will do my makeup influenced on how it hits me.  Maybe the sky will remind me of Tim Burton … I then continue forth emulating him or one of his characters.  It can be the smallest of things.  It can be the strangest of things.  But I’m constantly observing and imitating.  People tell me sometimes that I inspire them.  Maybe I do, I don’t know.  I do not necessarily feel I am inspiring I just am utterly inspired.  By everything."


-----


Today I called upon Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac to be my guide.  She did a wonderful job helping to make me a “Gypsy” today.  A “Gold Dust Woman”.  As “Sara, the poet in her heart”. It was actually “Landslide” that echoed in my ear when the tears began at the bus stop.

I am lying in bed.  A small light glows.  My journal’s pages are fanned open beside me as though the book is my companion.  I make sure that before leaving the house each day I have with me my journal, a working pen, my Patti Smith book, camera, bus pass, a few dollars, and a couple other knick-knacks.  When I travel alone in this unknown city, I do not feel alone.  I feel I have the comfort of a few friends when I have these things with me. 

This is the first chance I have had to blog a bit.  I love taking pictures and I love to write but sometimes I am thrilled that I cannot accomplish doing either of those things because it means I’m too busy experiencing.  So I’m not upset this has been my first chance to check in. 

I explored a different part of the city after my Americano.  A groovy little place called Capitol Hill.  The vintage/thrift shopping was so overwhelming that, dare I say, I believe I had some kind of an “eyegasm” upon gazing.  I knew I didn’t have much time today to shop so I will return next week with the money I don’t have.  I did buy one top, however.  It was black with the chest and long sleeves being lace.  AND there are buttons.  Come on, how could I not?  So me. 

I also had a chance to tour the beach area with a great view of the city.  Each day I am finding more and more reasons to fall in love.  I don’t really understand the way life works or why it does … I can only answer the call.  I can only accept the invitation to live.  And while I am here I find myself in the power of the pull. 

Of course I am doing a lot of thinking while I am here because I spend a lot of time by myself.  I’d have it no other way … I actually find it quite enjoyable to have only me to rely on (you know, when my very helpful and supportive friend is off to work for the day).  It would be totally different to be here with someone else, which is what I originally thought I wanted.  That would be wonderful in its own way but instead of turning my attention to conversation, I am turning to books and sites and personal freedom.  I anticipate, as the next week goes on, that I will feel a great bit more comfortable.  I think it will be hard for me to then catch the plane back to Virginia.  I have faith that my return will only solidify my desires and answer all of the questions that have been brought up in my mind while I am here. 

Art is alive and well here in the city.  Art is alive and thriving in me. 
I feel at home, I feel at home.

Alone But Not Lonely

This is a journal entry from today.  I paused a lot while writing which might explain its disconnected format.

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1:12 PST

I walked all over the fucking Pike Place Market.  I’m sitting in the sun on the grass overlooking the water.  What is everyone doing here?  Are they all here for the same reasons I am?  I can tell some are but it might simply be vacation.  I’m here for liberation. 

It’s hotter than I expected but it’s still nice.  I finally got a pack of American Spirits.  I had two and it did me well.  A familiar friend. 

I realized I was pretty hungry.  Or … empty.  Not much of an appetite but I felt I should eat, sit, and drink some water.  Just finished an organic orange.  I bought a bunch last evening in a co-op in the little sect I am staying. 

There are a lot of people – all expressing themselves differently.  It’s nice not to be working.  I worked hard to get here.  Lots of hours at a job and even more hours spent dreaming in my bedroom.  I feel I have pilgrimed through many years of preparation for this very moment.  This moment is good. 

I have this feeling at the surface of not wanting to come across as “not being from around here”.  I don’t know why.  Maybe because I don’t want to appear as though I come from somewhere … because it doesn’t feel like I do.  I miss some folks back home.  But I don’t miss the place.  I’m not even sure what I am feeling, I’m simply just trying to take it all in.  Envisioning myself as Patti Smith.  A lost girl in a new world – I’d have it no other way.  So great to be here.

“Are you going to move there?” is the question I’ve been asked.  It’s too soon to tell but it feels like a city I could thrive in.  Anything.  Anything else than dying in the Valley of Virginia.

I realized I’m the appropriate kind of tired.

Tired from living.

Not from dying.

It is invigorating.

I am less exhausted and far less hungry like I am so much so at home.  “Home”.  It was a good place to live.  I learned so much about myself.  But there is nothing left for me there. 

It feels great to write again.  Writing with a pen.  Contact with some paper.  So expressive in the right way. 

(Shade would be nice … don’t want to burn)

I do not have any expectations, to be honest, and feel this is working in my favor to create a clear path.  I seriously just want to take the present, each passing second that comes to be. 

I am thinking, reflecting rather, on this past year.  I feel each event has led me to this time.  The people I’ve met, the shows I’ve been to.  I’ve done this for myself.  I have been the one to get me to each point.  It’s fucking thrilling. 

I never thought it would be easy.  Sure as hell wasn’t “easy” – but clearly nothing I couldn’t handle.  I’m a little girl in a big city.  But despite my size I’m fucking mighty.  Maybe not naturally.  I think I’ve built myself this way.  I chose to tear down The Wall. 

Little kids are chasing pigeons.  Lots of hungry eaters.  Good to be on the planet with them at the same time.  They do not know they have everything to do with my experience – to do with this unusual journey.

Hmm … where is a tree I can rest under with my book “Just Kids” … ?

Looking, looking. 

This spot is nice.  This spot is holding me well.  But I think I’ll move.

 ∆   ∆    ∆    ∆    ∆    ∆    ∆    ∆    ∆ 

Wound up finding myself a bathroom.  A chick in there was smoking weed.  Felt strangely “at home”.  What does this say about me?  Now I’m nestled in a little coffee lounge called “Local Color”.  Black leather couches, soft lights, with Frank Sinatra serenading me.   A drum set sits behind me.  Perfect.

Sippin’ on a 12 oz. black, iced Americano. 

Do I need the coffee?  No.

Am I here to drink as much as I can in the “Coffee Capital”?  But of course! 

Poison me with caffeine, Seattle.  Inject me with culture.  Let me ride under your city wings.  Brilliant.

So.
Let me now be slightly shallow and just say this – the sexiness of the fellas is astounding.  The kind of sexy that home-folks would say is just bad hygiene.  I like ‘em dirty.  I like their hair.  Washington boys, don’t mind if I do. 

(It’s only 2 PM here.  Is that right?  I feel like I’m been here forever but in such a good way.)

Damn, this Americano is strong.  But I like it.  The young lass behind the counter asked if I “wanted room for cream” … I cringed.  I cringed because I know she asks that a million times a day like I do at my job.  I wanted to give her a hug but she’s putting in her time just as I do.  She had blue hair. 

I do love and appreciate the job I have at home.  A necessary link for me.  I dream of having my coworkers (&friends) here with me to talk about coffee and music.  I do miss them.  They’ve been so good to me.  And despite the oppression of that lacking town, they have helped save me.  I don’t think they know.  And I love them for that.  If only I had them here with me, I think my life would be so … complete and filled.  But it’s good to tour alone.  It’s like one part of myself is forcing another part of me to see “what I’m made of” if you will. 

I’m made of an appreciation for art and culture.

Made of a love for adventure.

Made of my dreams and curiosity. 

I’m made of a lot of things that I do not know yet.

I can only know within time and courage.

I think I’ll just rest here in this nest under the ceiling-fan until my sore feet are ready to roam again.  (Why do I have to like cute shoes?)  I’ll then take the light-rail back to Columbia City where I am staying with my friend Sabrina, her groovy girlfriend Michelle, and their two adorably fluffy cats. 

I’ll eat my leftovers from Chinatown for dinner and chill.

I feel so free…

to do as I please. 

To be me.

And it’s only just begun.

[WHAT’S PLAYING IN MY EAR: “I Found a Way” – First Aid Kit]

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A Holy Journal Entry

We Are The Misfits

to be one way seems so unnatural to me
definitions, i do believe, cause limits
why fall victim to being a limited person
when you can say, think, be as you choose to be
daily
monthly
a lifetime

it has rubbed me in such a disturbing way
to be given the title
hippie
to be given the title
hipster
to even be given the title
artist

the world can view you any way it wants to
just like anything else it is simply...
interpretation
interpretation is a beautiful thing, yes!
but why fall victim to being a limited person

as a description, you can call me anything
describing me to an outside source
you can call me anything

but if you choose to tell me who i am
i shake my head
not to be individualistic
but to be realistic

see, there is a class of people
maybe we really all do belong to a class of people
certainly that's how people have chosen to look at it
no matter what, it brings comfort
to classify
to categorize
but why fall victim to being a limited person

i can tell you what i am, if you are confused
i am
a misfit

a misfit is everything
a misfit is vulnerable
a misfit dresses according to that day's inspiration
a misfit is all of the people put together
marches to the beat of not their own drummer
but simply to the rhythm of their own lives

i don't want to be around people who are like me
i don't want you to agree with me on everything
and i certainly don't need the tension of creative competition
based on category

but who i choose to spend my time with are not "my people"
they are only who i choose to be with on that particular day
and they, themselves, have found themselves jiving to this misfit--with their misfitted self

the music i listen to compliments me on the individual day
and my self-expression through fashion and art is simply based on that moment's feelings
channeled through whatever i see, or a misfit sees, as necessary

just wandering
wandering
wandering around

hipsters inspire me
skateboarders inspire me
mothers inspire me
monks inspire me
but i am none of those things
because i am all of those thing
...'cause when i take a moment to stop thinking so hard, i come to understand that
i don't want to fall victim to being a limited person