Friday, December 14, 2007
out west...
We live out west. Not in west. Some people say we live over on the left. I'm quick to remind them that we live on the right side of a left hand state, but we live on the left side of the city. It's all so directionally challenging and ideologically ambiguous.
Out west they gots animals. Lots of animals. But not the kind pictured to the left...at least, not many. Well, not around these parts, at any rate. 'Round these parts we gots the Elk, and the Deer, and the Bears. What always confused me about people who hunt for sport is that they enjoy killing things that are beautiful.
"Hey there Billy Joe, lookie there at that there Elk 'a headin' this here aways...ain't that a purdy thang?"
"You said it Joe Bob. You know what? I think I'm gonna take this here rifle, and blow a hole in that there Elk so's I can cut its head off 'n hang it on the wall over my wood stove."
"Sounds like a plan Billy Joe."
Boom. Groan. Splat. Another one bites the bullet. Ah well. Mankind. Ever the collector of pretty things and trophies, right? Right. It explains the many wives of Donald Trump, at least. Still, I suppose people would frown on Trump if he were to treat his wives like the hunter treats an Elk. At least his wives have a fighting chance...for a time...until the lawsuit is filed.
Still, we live out west. Things out west are bigger, it seems. From Elk to Egos, we make 'em big out west. Not as big as a Texas ego, mind you (those are legendary, loud, and un-paralleled in the world), but we got some big egos, and big opinions, and big trucks, and big trees, and lots of big guns. So why do we all seem to have this need to crowd together in clumps around rivers? Once, as I was looking across the valley from the top of Doomsday Hill (If you live in Spokane, you'll know what this is), at about mile five on the Bloomsday route (again.. Spokane thing), toward the newly built Life Center Church and the surrounding River Run Housing Community below it, all so tightly nestled in the river bottom below, someone asked me "ain't that purdy?"
"No." I said. "The Church looks like a giant barn and the houses are too close together and all look the same, and I haven't seen a white tailed deer in this area in two years."
We make 'em big out west, you see. We love our open spaces, so long as the Californian's stay away. We love our deer and our elk, so long as they shift over a bit when we erect two hundred egg crate homes in a ten acre area.
This afternoon, it's snowing outside. It's snowing all over this big 'ole Inland Northwest. Maybe that'll slow down our biggness for a while. I'm gonna go outside and enjoy this coming northwestern snowy weekend. I'm gonna forget about Billy Joe and Joe Bob, and make my own West, my own open spaces. I'm gonna shoot animals with my gun of choice, my camera, which converts the animals to pixels, instead of hamburger.
What are you going to do this weekend?Labels: spokane
honesty...
I must be naive. I must be a silly person with no grasp on reality. I have this sense in me that hopes against hope that people, specifically, the people I do business with, are being honest with me.
We rent. The owner of our house is ready to sell and has offered it to us first because we have that right written into our rental agreement. The letter from the management company told us that there may be another interested party, and that we need to make our decision soon. Every time I mention to people that they told us there may be another interested party, people tell me that this is likely a ploy, a rouse, a bluff.
I don't want to live in a world where this goes on all the time. But I am powerless to stop people from doing this, and I am powerless to keep from doing business with people who might do this. I have no evidence that what was said in the letter was untrue, and the management company hasn't really given me any reason to suspect that this may be true, but for some reason, society expects me not to believe it.
I must be naive. I must be a silly person with no grasp on reality. I must be someone who wants to live in a world whose existence is completely impossible. I must be completely out of touch with human nature.
I will continue to be this way, because living any other way would be depressing.
In other news, we're buying our house finally!Labels: spokane
the grudge...
Sometimes we hold on to our anger. Sometimes it's because of something we envision as an injustice. Sometimes, though, it's not an injustice. Sometimes, unknown to us, our anger is unjustified, and our grudge, useless. Most times, in fact.
We let it boil inside. We fight for perceived justice, but sometimes we're blinded. When everyone else has forgotten what we were fighting for, nobody understands what we're saying, or why. When all the parties have moved on, lived on, or passed away, what is the point? Injustice, or justice, it doesn't matter anymore, it just doesn't, does it?
See that sign over there on the left? I see this sign on my way to work every day, and I don't understand it. Do you?
Note: One thing I probably should note about this sign, which I neglected to do earlier, is that it's been around longer than the current Chief of Police. Kirkpatrick took office in 2006 (I believe), but before then, the sign bore the name of the previous Chief of Police of Spokane (whose name eludes me at the moment). This sign is active, live, and maintained. It is obviously a fresh issue in this persons mind.Labels: spokane
vespers...
It's the tolling of the bell that makes me look up. St. Charles is calling the faithful again this evening. I turn and stand, dirt and grime on my clothes and hands from setting plants in the vegetable garden, and look out of the garage where I've just returned my tools and other implements.
There is a golden light flowing down the quiet street as the bell chimes, the wind seems to gently respond to the sound waves and stirs the foxgloves from their upright vigil. Ever so slightly, they sway in time to the continued chimes, four chimes now, two more to go.
Laughter in the back yard, the swing set is being used by the boys. They've been running through the green grass, shoe-less, having sword battles with the wooden stakes I was using.
This is why. This is why this is home. It's the sounds I hear, the people I'm with, the golden sun in the sky, refracting orange on to the clouds as the sun deepens toward evening. We slowly quiet. We drift into dinner, baths, and bedtime, all as the sun continues to set. The sun is almost loath to go down, and when it finally does, it's glow lingers even longer.
This is why I love it here. This is why this is home.Labels: spokane
Thursday, January 11, 2007
cure for writer's block...
I left too early this morning. No snow plows about town yet, and snow still coming down a bit. Really slick. So I gave it up and stopped for a coffee so the machines could do their work.
There's a place in Spokane called Dolly's. It's that Pepto Bismol pink catercorner building on the corner of North Washington and West Indiana. It's small. Very small. Back before the indoor smoking laws went into effect in Washington State, the greasy smells of bacon and eggs would have been mixed with hazy cigarette smoke on a morning like this, a morning with blowing snow that's piling up on the streets, and temperatures in the lower teens. On mornings like this, Dolly's is a haven for the cold and the hungry.
I walk into the place early. It's dark outside. I find a seat at the bar. I like to sit at the bar in diners like this, because you get to observe more. Dolly's is so small it only needs one waitress. She's fast paced, dressed in a black turtleneck this morning, and calls everyone sweetie. The bar is slowly filling up this morning with old men, old men with white, or whitening beards, who walked in removing snow covered wool lined bomber hats. These men all know each other, or at least talk with each other like they know each other. They laugh about the cold, warm their hands on the coffee cups, and order eggs, bacon, hash browns, toast and gravy. From the bar I can also watch the cook. She's a large woman, easily six foot two and broad shouldered. Her short cropped hair can only be described as 'butch.' She cooks breakfast for old men who don't know what the term 'butch' could possibly mean other than the name of a loyal dog.
The waitress rushes around, topping off coffee cups, chatting with the customers, and continuing a good natured debate with a white bearded fellow at the other end of the bar from me, as she has done for the last twelve years, she says. "Maybe someday you'll win." I say. "That's not the point," she replies, "the point is just to have my own opinion." I think she's right. Here in this little place, that some would call a greasy spoon, or a dive, nobody puts on airs. Nobody is richer or poorer than the next guy. We're all just people, living in the world together, trying to make our way.
I pay for my coffee, put away my newspaper so the next customer can use it, and walk back out into the snow, which is thickly covering the parking lot. The snowplows have made one pass now, so I get back on the road, following in their wake. Out here it's cold, forbidding, and unfriendly. Back their in Dolly's, someone I don't even know just called me "sweetie." I like that.Labels: spokane
