But every once in awhile I look back to find an old entry. And I happen upon things that remind me why I like to write. And some of these things are more in the area of prose. I write these sorts of things with the intention of people being able to read them. Not nesessarily because they are "good" or "bad" ~ but they are uniquely mine and an expression I felt necessary at the time. That's kind of what art is anyway, isn't it?
So here is something I wrote on November 15, 2006:
Layers protect me during my windstorm immersion. Headband presses earbuds firmly into place. White lines disappear into my jacket. Mittens press play.
Leaves explode with bursts of wind. Winding through puddles of leaves and piles of water. Stevie Wonder reminds me in the dark fall rain that I am the sunshine of his life.
At one point I run into a smiley bouncy ball. I've seen these on the Today show. You can mail them to anyone, USPS. I kick it. I dribble with it. I kick and then run and then kick and then run. Then I kick it and the wind catches it and it rolls out into the middle of the street. A car has to slow down for it. I walk slowly behind a tree, half embarrassed, half amused.
A cherry tomato sits on the counterbalance. I tap it with my toe. It rolls. Down. The hill. Banking off the apartment terraces. Slowing down. Stopping. I'm following it. I kick again and it rolls passed a couple, climbing their way to a latte, a video, a fireplace. I stop kicking it. Am I bored or embarassed again at how easily amused I am?
In the wind you don't have to inhale. Just open your mouth and the air finds its way deep inside. You avoid exhaust from tailpipes, as it is whipped up and out. But exhaling.
I wrote this next little bit on October 17, 2006. This was 10 months after the smoking ban officially started. I think I was surprised to smell cigarette smoke. And it mixed in the cold, crisp air with indian food (this is before Banjara closed and Opal opened on the corner of Boston and Queen Anne Ave) Now I feel that same sense of surprise when I visit other states that still allow it.
It is kind of like watching planes duck behind the buildings in the skyline. It conjures up different feelings than it would have pre-9/11. But don't worry, I'm not going to get all Guilanni on you.
His cigarette smoke swirled in my direction.
The last cigarette in Seattle muddled with curry and cardamon.
Sap seeping into the autumn air.