September 27, 2014

As of Thursday morning, one more Tinder profile was added to this world on the decline of organic social interaction. Did I fight the urge? Yes of course I fought the urge; who hasn't fought the urge to get a Tinder profile? No female likes degrading herself to five pictures on an iPhone app to be seen by men within 20 miles of her between the ages of 23 and 29. And what if something actually works out? It's okay, we can tell Mom we met on a street corner when I asked him for directions. As far as Mom's concerned, Tinder doesn't even exist. But the rest of the world? Well, I've stopped wondering what the rest of the world thinks of what I do. I can't say I've stopped caring, but I have stopped wondering.

Anyway, I joined for a network. A chance to meet new people in the area. It brings me marginal solace to see that many others on Tinder joined for the same reason: new to Seattle, eager to meet new people. I think they should create a Tinder for friends. But either way, I had my first Tinderella story last night and I can’t say it went as I had expected. A very personable fellow, tall, blue eyes and blond hair. Certainly attractive, as anyone would be that you meet on Tinder. So personable, in fact, that before the night was over we had visited the Men’s Warehouse, the Chase bank, the grocery store, the dry cleaners, and the local pub so that he could say hello to all the people he knew who worked in these places. I’ll spare you the details, but it was clear by the end of the evening to the both of us that it wasn’t going to work out between us. His friend drove me home, a friend we’d met up with at the Oktoberfest we visited before a comedy show we planned to attend; we never made it to the comedy show.

You know, I have this fear of romantic love. I know this sounds like the first chapter of a Nicholas Sparks novel, but really, I just have this fundamental distaste for the idea. And to be frank I’m not sure why I’m even writing about it on this blog, except that it’s somewhat relevant to the post. Don’t worry, though, I’m in no mind to unload all my romantic baggage upon you. As Nathaniel Hawthorne says about autobiographer, “we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil.” So to continue, I think I believe in true love, at least I’d like to, but I’m not really sure. I’m afraid of what I’ll discover in love – that it’s not as beautiful as people say it is. A fear of disappointment then? I’m afraid of knowing someone so deeply and to be known as well. I know I have these vulnerable, insecure sides of myself that I hate unleashing to the world of the Here and Now – I prefer to keep them tucked away so I can pretend they don’t exist – and love has this terrible way of bringing that stuff to the surface. I also fear that love means changing myself. I know love means compromising and sacrifice, but I’ve lost myself in love once before and I never want that to happen again. Yes, I’ve been in love before. I’m not in the mood to talk about it, but suffice it to say that it didn’t leave a good taste in my mouth concerning the issue. I just have a terrible, foreboding, fundamental feeling that love is passionate, vulnerable, and short-lived. And I don’t even want to begin to speak of marriage.

If you’re reading this, please share your thoughts, your experiences, your feelings on this issue. Leave a comment on the blog post; it can be anonymous. The world sees a lot of brokenness in love, and I suppose I’m losing hope, and I would value the input of others. I haven’t given up yet, though. Like my friend Evan says, “If not for the hope to be able to love and be loved so completely by someone, what makes life worth living?”

September 24, 2014

I guess I could say I’m doing okay out here now. Nothing of significance has happened recently that plants itself in my mind to blossom into a blog entry later. No news is good news, I suppose. I find it a bit absurd at the amount of sedentary living I do; I suppose I can comment on that. I have a budget and a kitchen, and I eat a Reese’s at approximately 3pm every day, and I always wash the dishes as soon as I come home and I won’t eat until the dishes with which I used to cook my meal are clean too. Not that you, reader, should care about any of this meaningless nonsense, because in the end how interesting can it really be to read so much about one person that you have absolutely no vested interest in? No, no, I’m not fishing for compliments. I’ve only had a terrible experience of sitting in a hunting cabin with no excuse to leave while a fellow hiker explained to me the details of his newly built telescope, down to the size of each lens. It was such a long conversation, if you can even call it that, that my aunt had baked two whole batches of cookies before I could even get one single word into the conversation. I hope my stories aren’t so mind-numbing, but if you’re back to read this, suffice it to say I genuinely appreciate it. I will keep writing though, regardless of readership; it’s just the way it is, and one day, when I am married with a daughter, and I can appreciate with a whole new level of understanding the amount of pure lamentation I have given my poor mother over the years, I will walk into my daughter’s bedroom after she has announced a wild declaration to hitchhike to Alaska or to marry her first love or to start a cupcake bakery, and I will hand her these printed entries and tell her that the sun still rises on the other coast, and it’s still a sight worth seeing.

September 20, 2014

              The homeless population here overflows, especially in the University District where I live. You see them sleeping on every stoop on University Way between the hours of 1am and 7am. I’m distantly yet insatiably curious to know these people and their lives, because I fear that the only thing I really know about homelessness is the stereotype that exists surrounding it. Whether the stereotype’s true or not doesn’t matter; the point is, I never want a stereotype to be all I know about something. That’s why I walked up to a group of them with my friend Lauren. She and I are walking down the sidewalk, having a cigarette and pondering life, when we see tents set up right on the concrete and a large group of approachable individuals with lots of backpacks. So we approach them and meet a guy called Bear. He stands in a sea of cardboard signs that, in a nutshell, raise awareness for the need to have a centralized location for homeless people to camp so that they don’t have to be on the streets of every urban neighborhood. A mission I can get behind. Anyway, Bear’s this big guy in his 30s with a beanie pulled low over his head and tattoos creeping up his neck and down his arms. He’s not homeless; he has an apartment that he won’t go home to until he sees his family out here on the streets have a home to go to as well. He’s a leader, an advocate, with an electric energy of safety and benevolence that you sense as soon as you pass within 10 feet of him, and the whole mood of the group is contingent on his presence. He keeps the angry ones calm, the sad ones happy, and the lonely ones accepted. I notice that others pick up on his vibes - people encourage each other to stay out of the way of passerby, no one asks for money, and everyone abides by Bear's standard of no alcohol or illegal drugs. Bear bridges the gap between the homeless and people like me who only know the stereotypes. He’s got a story, a past you could write a TV drama about, and he shares it shamelessly and passionately. He always thought himself invincible, he tells us, until he realized the one person he couldn’t beat was himself. “How did you realize this?” Cancer, he says. Stage 1 prostate cancer. And in fact, his stomach is doing flips from his chemo yesterday, so he excuses himself to go smoke some weed, and if we would like, we are welcome to join.

             I don’t smoke, but hell, why not stand there and have a conversation? We’re accompanied by a woman named Michelle and an older man named Russ. We stand together, the five of us a motley crew, and Bear lights up a joint. It helps with the nausea from his chemo treatments, he tells us. Otherwise, he takes no drugs and drinks no alcohol. I sit on the edge of a cold cement wall and draw my knees up to my chest and observe these strange and wonderful people. This is his dad, Bear tells us and points to Russ. Russ has this fantastic white beard that shakes while he tells me how he left the Marine Corps in the 50s and spent the 60s in D.C. around Dupont Circle and then the 70s in San Francisco, and then finally picked Seattle. They say when you come to Seattle you never leave, whether you’re Kurt Kobain, Jimmy Hendrix, or Russ the homeless guy. Michelle says that even Pearl Jam is around and sometimes you catch a glimpse of the band members walking down the street, and that’s when I realize how strange and ironic life can be, seeing that last night I hung out with Pearl Jam’s guitarist and tonight I’m in an alley with some really awesome homeless people informing me that sometimes you can see Pearl Jam's members around. Anyway, Bear calls Russ his dad and it’s really striking because Bear lost his parents at a young age and ran away from his Boston orphanage at age 12 and hopped a train to Seattle. In the brief time I stand with them I see this authentic fatherhood from Russ to Bear, especially when Bear gives him this big hug and the old man’s eyes light up with this uninhibited joy and it’s all just a little bit beautiful.

What do you think of this Seattle vibe? That’s what Michelle asks me, her raspy, manly voice and masculine face on her feminine body leaving me to wonder what exact gender she could be. I smile and very bluntly tell her that my upbringing was about as Republican conservative white girl as it gets, and that the vibe here in Seattle attracts me and terrifies me all at the same time. Hell, I’m a virgin that’s never smoked pot, living in Seattle hanging out on the streets with some homeless people, and I’m having the time of my life. The answer satisfies her and I like that I can be different here but accepted at the same time. It’s enough that I want to stand with these people; it doesn’t matter how I feel about it. Opinions can be dauntingly arbitrary.

Lauren, Bear and me

September 19, 2014

Sara, grow up. You’re professional. You’re not a fangirl. I really annoy myself sometimes, and it annoys me a lot that I’m standing on this stage and I want to take pictures of the band rehearsing to put on Facebook and brag to all my friends that I’m on stage with the drummer from Red Hot Chili Peppers. No one else seems to care; Brad and Jordan are setting up the cameras and Matt’s running around planning the shots for this big event at University of Washington. Will Ferrell’s talking and some musical people are playing, all to raise money for cancer survivors. Anyway, it’s like no big deal when Brandi Carlile walks in and starts belting into the mic. And then when the Guns n’ Roses guitarist comes in, and the bassist from the Dave Matthews band starts strumming, followed by a sick guitar solo from Mike McCready from Pearl Jam, you might as well be listening to the radio the way everyone’s acting. I’m such a rookie.

Until they’re off stage. Then things start changing… the mood of the room changes when these individuals walk around. It’s like I’m fumbling around for a sand bag for my tripod and the wind shifts, or the smell of the room changes, or the temperature rises a few degrees, and you’re like, what just happened. Oh, hey, Will Ferrell’s here. That’s what happened. Men that formerly stood tall and tact suddenly become divas with tunnel-vision focused on this one particular person, and this person’s every movement is important, every joke is hilarious, every nod or glance envied or worshipped. I think it’s the hat. I really do. Every celebrity wears a hat. I think more normal people should wear hats, to be honest.

“Hey Will! I’m Sara!” I say all bright and cheery like I’m introducing myself to a friend’s new boyfriend. He’s a little taken aback, probably because I swooped in out of the background right after his meet-and-greet and nudged my way between his agent and the event coordinator to shove my hand in his face. “Hi,” he says to me with a large, questioning smile. He’s actually a pretty genuine dude. It makes me feel shy but I’m going to go with it. “Just want to say thanks for coming out tonight! That’s all!” and that’s what I say. There’s this awkward silence from everyone after I say “that’s all” but he’s a nice guy so he recovers and says something like “no problem” so I pat him on the arm real friendly and all, like meeting celebrities is part of my day job, and tell him to have a great night. Okay. Could have been worse. (I ended up joking with him a little bit before the night ended. Yes. I shared a joke with Will Ferrell. I’m going to savor that.)

Anyway, so all my life I’ve had these dreams. I grew up wanting a motorcycle and I finally saved up $300 to take the class and get the license, and then I managed to get a little xt225 that was road certified but I had to put a few more hundred in to fix it up, and then I had to register it and tag it and buy all my riding gear and it took forever but I’ll never forget the way it felt to ride it legally on the road for the first time. I rode it to lunch with my parents on my 21^st birthday, a real swanky place where they ordered champagne and Mom wore a dress. I was thirty minutes late and I had to sneak into the bathroom with my helmet and gear while my mom’s back was turned so I could throw on a dress and then I had to hide my stuff behind the hostess counter. And then on the night I first thought of the idea for Journey in their Shoes, the little non-profit I run, I had this dream that one day it would be known and that people would get behind its mission, and I saw myself being interviewed by important people because of it and having the chance to get my message out. Then I found myself in the Amazon rainforest with cameras in my face and Microsoft’s reporter interviewing me for thirty minutes to get my story and my message. And there was the feeling again of a dream realized.

You know, everyone says follow your dreams, and I stand behind that. It’s a good mantra. Like I’ve said, success is a choice and not an opportunity. But for me, I like to remember where I come from. I like to look back on the younger me that cried when the popular girls threw my underwear out the window in middle school, or the girl that had her heart broken for the first time at fifteen, or the girl that wanted to drop out of college in my last year because it was too overwhelming and I wasn’t very emotionally stable. I like to remember those times because it makes the place I’m in overwhelmingly satisfying. Not that I don’t ever feel that way anymore, I do. I’m lonely, I’m insecure, and bless my poor roommate, I’m emotional. But I had a dream once where I wanted to be someone important. I wanted to find a place in the world that would give me the opportunity to share a message of love. I wanted to be around people that have influence, because then that message can reach further. And I wanted to get paid to do something that I love. I held onto that dream and sacrificed a lot of certainty to be able to follow it. And this moment happens, where I’m backstage with a camera and lots of important people, and we’re watching a clip of Chris Smith and Will Ferrell on Jimmy Fallon, and I realize that Chris Smith is next to me and Will Ferrell is 30 feet away and holy crap. I’m living a dream. I never want to forget to stop and remember, because that happens really easily in this superficial film industry. You can get all caught up on where you have left to go and not how far you've come. I don’t ever want to get sucked into forgetting that every moment can be a dream realized and even though I have more dreams to follow and more places to go, I’m happy right here. I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced a better feeling than contentment.

VIDEO: Living platonically with the opposite gender.

September 16, 2014

I hate running. If there was any other type of exercise that would give me the tone and cardio running does, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I’d even do yoga for God’s sake. But I’ve dabbled in swimming, biking, climbing, even the elliptical – and although all of them are more enjoyable than running, I have a terrible addiction to running. It’s the kind of addiction that might sit latent and inactive for a few months, but then return with a vengeance on one unassuming sunny day, and suddenly closet doors fly open and old running shoes crusty with last year’s mud are brought out into the open, and I throw them on without giving myself a chance to change my mind. Because I will change it if I have the chance. I hate running.

Tonight Jordan came home late and we decided to go running. I don’t mind it so much when I’m running with someone. I ran all summer with my friend, the quarterback from my high school. I was training for the Army, and apparently all the Army does is run, so I really pushed myself, and when I couldn’t push myself, he would push me. Literally. He would get behind me and run against me to push me when I wanted to walk. I could finish 7 miles in an hour. Glory days.

I had that stupid cloud lingering over my red, sweaty head throughout the run, the cloud of guilt. It doesn’t help Jordan runs like the freaking Energizer bunny. I’m serious. He practically prances. We stop at the sports fields outside of the UW gym to do push-ups, crunches, and the like. It’s dark and the dew has set on the grass, so that doesn’t make it any easier to work out. And then Jordan’s pumping out his push-ups like a maniac, and I’m complaining about how much I used to work out when I was preparing for the military, how I would lift and run and box and hike and bike, and how toned my muscles were, and I’m all but begging him not to judge me by my current abilities, but to just trust me when I say I used to be some tough shit. I keep talking and squeaking out a few push-ups and crunches, and he’s silently pounding out his routine with a look on his face that belongs in a Gatorade commercial. And then I realize I sound just like people I want to slap sometimes: the people that live in the dreams of their future or in the success of their past to excuse themselves from the choice to make in the present.

My choice is staring at me in the face as I lie on the wet grass staring up at the few bright stars that are visible behind Seattle’s haze. Either I try, or I don’t. It’s nice to chat with Jordan while we run, and it’s funny to giggle as we do high skips across the ground. But that’s not why I left the apartment building with my running shoes on. I left to feel the wind in my lungs making my throat hoarse as I gasp for breath; I left to push myself to my limit, and then show myself that I can go beyond it; I left to bring my muscles to life and revert to the most basic of human functions: movement, exertion, challenge, and accomplishment. But I’m not accomplishing. Look at me. I’m weak. I can’t run three miles in thirty minutes; I used to run that in less than twenty minutes back in high school. I can’t do sixty push-ups; I used to do twice that on an incline with weights. What’s wrong with me? I’m sure as hell Jordan doesn’t even believe me when I say I used to train for the Army. I sure as hell know I wouldn’t believe me.

It’s the last mile. Mom used to say to me back when I ran cross country that when you hit the point where you feel that you can’t go on, run faster. It tricks your body and you hit what’s called a second wind. Jordan and I are running through UW’s dark campus and we come to six flights of stone stairs in a row. Last time I ran this with him, I walked them. I won’t do that this time. I jump the first three steps in one dramatic leap and Jordan keeps at my shoulder. I take the next nine steps in two’s. We race across a bridge to the next two flights of stairs, and we take them, both of us breathless but persistent. We don’t let ourselves stop. At the top of the third flight, Jordan’s pulling ahead. My muscles scream. I can’t catch my breath. I need to stop. I won’t stop. Halfway up the fourth flight, Jordan fights to tell me he notices I’m not walking these steps. Like hell I’m not. Almost there. It’s the fifth flight and my legs want to collapse under me. Run faster. Tell yourself you can, and you can. God it hurts so bad. I peak the sixth flight, but I don’t have time to feel victorious because there’s still another half mile left until we’re back. I know Jordan expects me to slow down, but I’m done making excuses. Success is a choice, not an opportunity. You want something, you fight for it. I want to run, and I want to run well. I spread out my stride on the downhill, and we’re coming back into town. I can hear him running behind me and it bums the hell out of me that he’s hardly panting now. Gosh I’ve lost so much in such a short time. Keep running. Look forward, not backward. Success starts with the choice to give yourself everything you possibly can to succeed. That means endurance. It means persistence. It means focusing onto your dream, and letting go of whatever could hold you back. It sounds like I’m preaching, and I hate preaching, but I guess I need to write this for myself more than anyone else. It helps to just write it down.

I wish I could write this melodramatic victorious finish where I sprint the end and joyously high five Jordan and we go inside and drink kale and almond shakes and I take a nice shower and relax content with my enduring battle. I did sprint the finish, and sulked. Jordan high fived me and I reluctantly high fived him back. I took a cold shower, and then sat solemnly at the kitchen table while Jordan graciously made me a shake. Because I’m still human, and I sound like I’ve cracked the code and figured it out, but even in this little accomplishment, I’m still comparing myself to the past. I can’t help it.

September 14, 2014

I am entirely incompetent at adulthood. I realized this today when I walked into the kitchen and saw I had left the oven on…. yesterday. I was going to let myself off the hook the first time that happened two weeks ago, but dear God. I am a liability. I also noticed that I drink a glass of red wine a night, and I feel frightfully like my mother. And then adult Sara goes to her office. I have an office to go to. This isn’t some slab of wood in a dorm with a desk lamp on it. It’s a freaking office. With two monitors. And pens and stuff that I can veritably call “office” supplies, and not “school” supplies. But the catch is I have to be an adult and actually do work at it and not just waste time on Imgur.

Can you tell me how it felt when you wanted to take your own life? I hear the words come out of my mouth but they sound timid as hell and I want to tell myself to stop being such a baby about these interviews. I’m trying to not to squint from a hanging white backdrop that’s luminescent from the shining LED lights around the camera that’s in front of me, filming the person sitting on a bar stool in our studio telling us a tear-jerking story about their lifelong battle with depression. I’m putting their story in my current project. Three weeks ago I was living in a tent in the middle of Maryland wilderness training for boot camp and now I’m sitting in a video studio in Seattle asking someone to tell me their deepest secret on camera. I still get excited when my boss CC’s me on an email because I feel somewhat important, and now I’m responsible for an entire video? Fake it ‘til I freaking make it.

Now it’s 5:30pm and I’m still sitting at my desk editing this project, a video for a suicide awareness and prevention organization out here in Seattle. First of all, the fact that I’ve been given a video to produce already is apparently a big deal. I’ve been told people are in the industry for years before producing, if they ever do. It’s a man-eat-man world out here, and personally I’m not a fan of walking all over people, so I’ll just ride this wave of good fortune for as long as it lasts. Second of all, I’m exhausted, and I’m working with a budget of several grand to make this video happen. And it’s hot, and I feel completely unprepared. A new email flashes in my inbox. It’s my client warning me not to make the video too depressing because there will be suicidal individuals in the audience at the large fundraiser where this video will be aired. Great. Now there are lives on the line too. I spin around in my spinny office chair. Shmeh. I check Facebook, again, and malevolently envy the people I work with who are already down the street at the bar getting drinks. The bosses have left, and it’s just me uploading two hours of footage from all the interviews I’ve conducted that day. Two hours of interviews that I have to cut down to a gripping, dynamic, poignant two minute video that depresses people enough to write a fat check but not enough to kill anybody. All before my deadline on Wednesday. Adulthood.*

*I do need to mention, however, that I love what I do with a ravishing passion, and this deadline will be met with vigor and not disdain. I only think it’s worth mentioning that even my dream job can still be a job sometimes.

*I also want to add that I take the issue of suicide very seriously and I am actually very excited to be able to create a video that brings awareness to the issue. I do, however, have to take into consideration the fact that this is meant for a fundraiser, and I apologize if it sounds insensitive to talk about my project in this manner.

VIDEO: Cappuccino lessons.

VIDEO: At the office.

September 7, 2014

              I let Jordan read my blog yesterday. He took it well, I’d say.

              It’s really uncomfortable needing someone so much. Not that Jordan is my all and everything here, but he’s the only friend I have. And I also live with him. And work on the sets with him. And hang out with his family with him. And I’ll meet all his friends. He’s like a social lifeline and I’m trying not to make a big deal about it because I don’t want to freak him out. I want him to keep me. I’m toying with a delicate balance of foolishness and tact. That means not making a big deal about when the toilet seat is left up, not leaving my bra on the coffee table (since I occupy the living room), not dominating the top shelf in the refrigerator, and making sure the wine stays stocked. He’s going to read this and tell me I’m ridiculous because he’s a nice guy without expectations, but still. Just how I feel. Hanging out with him is fun as hell though, or should I say hella fun, because that’s his lingo. Life here in general is pretty swell. It’s simple. I have one friend, I have my bosses, I have my office, I have Jordan's couch, I have a bicycle, and the biggest problem I have to worry about is the shower drain clogging and the refrigerator not freezing our grapes. There’s a lot of time to think, and some loneliness still left to feel, but one day when I have a mortgage, or a child, or a rough period at work, I’m going to remember the way the stars look when we longboard in the empty parking garage down the block, or aiming our spit loogies through the hole in the fence while we sit and Jordan has a cigarette, or having time to write and paint and draw and create whenever I feel like it, and playing music while I sprawl out my creativity on the living room floor. One day, I will think of this unpretentious time and say to myself, “Those were the days.” Well, these are the days, and I will live them today.

              Anyway, so the sun is out and I’m telling you Seattle people don’t know what to do with themselves. Even I fell victim to breaking out in a sweat from 75⁰ and sunshine. Had a fan blowing in the window and everything. The masses emerge from their dwellings like cave people, holding their hands out flat against the sunrays, eyes red and crisp, and their skin shining with the wattage of a fluorescent light bulb. I notice these things while walking to meet someone new for coffee. I recognize this someone new from a distance, sitting at the counter at the big picture window of that stupid café I told you about. I know he can see me walking across the street, and it’s awkward. He pretends not to notice me when I walk in the shop.

His name is Griffin and we met last weekend at the same little shop. He’s such a fellow he deserves a whole paragraph to himself. A brilliant insomniac, his mind swims with fascinating plots and ideas and he dreams of being a screen writer, but he won’t even tell me his favorite word, let alone let me read any of his work, because he writes to express himself only to himself. He’s a 34 year old bread baker with thick lenses in his square glasses and these bright, electric blue eyes that are bloodshot from the hell of sleeplessness. We talk about people, how people are walking exhibits that bear the souvenirs, scars, and stories of a life that has been lived in a way no one else has ever lived or ever will live, and a simple interaction – a hello, a meeting for coffee, a warm embrace – leaves you with something to take from that person that you could never find anywhere else. That’s what I like about Griffin: he’s the kind of guy with whom you can really feel what you’re walking away with, because sometimes you don’t always realize what a person gives you, but you can with him. Last Saturday, I prayed that God would give me a friend, and moments later I met Griffin. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to meet up with him because I’m lame with making friends and sometimes prefer to be alone than have coffee with someone I don’t know at all, but I went because I felt bad asking God for a friend then bailing on him. And also because Jordan had to work, and when he asked me what I was going to do for the day, I wanted to sound like I had something going for me that doesn’t involve Netflix. But I’m glad I met Griffin.

September 4, 2014

              

              Flashback. It’s the first night here, and Brad takes me out on his boat with his wife. The two of them are hosting a high end audio post production company (aka a company that makes audio pretty on a TV show right before they release it). Classy stuff. Before I can say hello to Brad’s wife she’s breathlessly shoving a kitchen knife and a cucumber in my hand while sending Brad out to buy the forgotten pita bread so she can quickly make the cocktails to numb the minds of our guests and blind them to the sheer lack of preparation we have done for the evening. The guests get louder with each drink and I feel like I’m in high school again with Katy Perry and Pharrell blasting over speakers as we drift out into Lake Union, and I keep forgetting these people are in their 50s. The wine’s running low so I settle for a beer, and I drink it hunkered down in the back booth of the boat while listening to mind-boggling conversation about all the people they know that most people just read about in tabloid magazines. I just have to remind myself to be cool and act like comparing Emmy after-parties is a totally normal conversation topic. Such is the film industry, I suppose.

              This is the world I’m in. I breathe it all in as I stand on a paddle board in the middle of the lake, drifting away from the party boat for a little while. The skyline stands before me as an austere testament to the terrific progress upon which this city builds its reputation. Seattle is truly a city like no other, and you know that when you look at the person coming towards you on the sidewalk and they raise their face and flash you a smile like you’re a neighbor they haven’t seen in a few months. You know that when you decide to go to the local park and it’s an old abandoned Gas Works factory converted into a giant playground, and when a pile of dirt under an overpass is sculpted to look like a troll, so they name a street after it. You know it when the Seahawks play in the NFL 2014 Kickoff and Russell Wilson carries the team to victory again. And yes, you know the place is unique when you see the bum on the street corner lighting up a joint and no one bats an eyelash. This city is a fantastic whirlwind of freedom and progress, bursting with the avant-gardes of entrepreneurship, fashion, and social movements, and I ride the wave like a rookie rider that surfs on her knees and probably looks like a complete idiot. At least that’s how I looked on that stupid paddle board that I actually really enjoyed.

              But I’m not alone anymore. “I’ve always had this dream of being a roller disco star,” my new roommate Jordan laughs as he says this to me in the kitchen that reeks of burnt kale chips, and even though he's joking, he knows how to say things in ways that make them ten times funnier. I’m holding a guitar on my lap with one hand and a wooden elephant mug of wine with the other. It’s 1am, and the kitchen is electric with the energies of two tipsy visionaries that have too many stories to tell and ideas to share. The table is littered with a ukulele, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and pieces of paper on which we’ve scribbled some of the most fanciful and eccentric ideas we have, because sometimes you just have to write these things down. Right now, these ideas are hanging up on our refrigerator. I call it the Idea Board, but I haven’t told Jordan that yet. His laptop plays some underground reggae and he’s beat-boxing to the music while he takes the burnt kale chips out of the smoky oven. The night is alive and we talk about everything under the sun, and we do a horrible rendition of “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley, but singing together is fun as hell, and who really cares? Sometimes you just have to sing, and when you sing with someone else, it’s fun to sound terrible because then you have less to hide. And when we’re tired of sitting, we stand on our heads on the living room floor, because apparently that’s yoga, and apparently it’s good for your health. And when that’s over, we ponder the perfection of the imperfect world we live in, because what does perfection produce except blindness? It’s the balance of imperfection that is perfect, and in that moment of enlightenment sitting at the kitchen table, it just made sense. What’s sanity without insanity, what’s peace without chaos, and what’s friendship without loneliness? It’s things like loneliness, things that make your heart muscles ache, that end up being what make your heart full again when they are fixed with something better. And that’s what I’ve found in my friend Jordan. See? I knew I’d be okay.

A Poem

Part of my job is helping my bosses work on commercials for different companies. One company needed a voiceover for its commercial and my bosses had me write it. After a few hours of serious brainstorming, this is what I came up with, and I’m actually pretty proud of it. It ended up getting cut from the commercial (it didn’t fit with the company’s culture so I’m writing something else) so I figured I’d share it here:

              Stand

Bring out the dream within

That has never been silent

And chase it with vigor

Because you are defiant

To complacency.

I still believe in you.

Inside your soul

You behold the will

To reach what is thought to be hopeless

But longed for still.

So stand up! Rise!

The odds are great

And the current tries to pull us

But failure doesn’t intimidate

And the lies never fool us.

In this broken world, stand together.

One heart unbroken,

One dream uncaged,

We march forth, relentless

With the furious rage

Of passion in our blood.

Don’t ask us our age,

It doesn’t matter,

Because we believe.

VIDEO: The first few days…

VIDEO: The beginning…

September 2, 2014

              Living in Jordan’s apartment without knowing Jordan has been like an archaeological dig. You begin with the top layer: the surfboard, the snowboard, the longboard, the skateboard, the guitar, and the ratty shoes tucked under a desk filled with an assortment of books and camera gear. There are maps on the wall and little Buddha’s on the shelves. There are other exotic art pieces on the walls and shelves, and bright green plants in the window sills. The kitchen table is littered with crayons and an empty wine bottle, and there are dirty mugs on the end table in the living room. Otherwise, the place is clean (clean compared to my expectations of a 22-year-old single dude’s apartment).

              The second layer was removed after I had spent about a day in the place. I was cleaning it up, sweeping and dusting and washing, as a thank you to him for letting me stay there. I found a journal on the desk (NO I didn’t read it). It struck me that he was pensive and patient enough to write. The crayons on the table had been used to decorate an envelope, on which he had colored bubble letters that read, “Count ur blessings,” and then inside was a torn piece of paper with ten things he’s grateful for (yes, I read that… you can judge me). In the cabinet with the few dishes he owns is a plate he had painted when he was 7 years old; he had painted his name in big red sloppy letters. I smiled at the thought of him keeping it all these years.

              I liked learning about the kid while cleaning his house. I couldn’t imagine what he’d be like; there wasn’t a picture of him anywhere. Anyway, I set my mind to cleaning this past weekend. He had written that he’d be home tomorrow, the 3^rd, and I wanted the place to be ready for him. I even washed his towels and blankets so he’d have them clean when he got home. I threw in my dirty underwear and a few dirty t-shirts too. When I went to take the load from the dryer, the damned machine hadn’t done a thing to dry the clothes. I muttered a few curse words as I dragged the wet load up the stairs to his apartment from the laundry room, and got creative with hanging everything up to air dry. My underwear ended up on the knobs of his kitchen cabinets. It brought a good bit of color to the room.

              Happiness. I wake up this morning and I go to work. The apartment’s atrocious and my laundry’s everywhere, but that’s okay. Jordan doesn’t come home until tomorrow. It’s gray out as it always is in the morning, but I bike to work anyway. The bike route is along the water and it’s truly an eccentric experience getting to work in the mornings. You pass the water where the sea planes land, and the little houses in which they filmed Sleepless in Seattle, and you can see towards the South where little bungalows sit nestled into the hills, or to the East you can see the large skyscrapers and the Space Needle. It’s worth the three mile ride. I’m happy here.

              Community. The door to the office is open and Brad’s inside. Let’s go to coffee, he says. We walk the two blocks to the local café he frequents, the kind of café where a macchiato isn’t a flavored drink from Starbucks but a delicate china cup filled with the richest and most serene coffee topped with frothy milk in the shape of a heart. They serve it with a shot glass of soda water to “cleanse the palette” because their macchiatos are holy and must be drunk appropriately. I like these people.

              Surprise. I’m at lunch with the bosses after a morning of responding to client emails, buying office supplies, and playing ping pong. An unknown number, local to the area, calls me and I answer. It’s a terrifically friendly voice introducing itself as Jordan wondering where he can track down the keys to his apartment because he’s home early. “Jordan, hey, good to meet you.” Nervous laugh. I’m awkward as hell. He can’t go home. My underwear is hanging from his kitchen cabinets.

              “You see, I thought you were coming home tomorrow.” I’m pacing in obnoxious circles on the sidewalk outside of this Vietnamese restaurant. “The place… it’s a little out of shape. I mean, I cleaned it for you, but I mean, well, there’s stuff around, my stuff. I didn’t really get a chance to pack up.” No, don’t worry, he just needs a change of clothes and a shower. “But I’d really like to go back with you and throw my stuff together.” No need, he can just pick the keys up from the office. “Jordan, my underwear is hanging from your kitchen cabinets because the dryer didn’t dry them yesterday. I need to go home with you.” Great, sounds good, he’ll meet me at the office and we can go from there.

              He was nice as anything, too, just as I imagined. Tall, curly hair, good face. I actually felt myself blush when I met him because who knew the guy would be so attractive. As I grabbed my stupid underwear and the rest of my clothes and stuff from around the place, he asked where I was going to stay, and I told him a boat. He offered his place to shower and crash for a night if I ever needed to. “Honestly, you can stay here until my lease ends at the end of the month if you want, I don’t care. Pay what you can and pitch in, and it’s fine with me.” So I stopped packing and went to the grocery store instead and filled the refrigerator. And now I have my first friend in Seattle, and a roommate. Pretty cool how things work out.

And don’t worry, he’s safe. The bosses have known him his whole life, and if all else fails I have pepper spray.

September 1, 2014

              I slept way too long last night. I could come up with some dry excuse as to why, like the trash truck was so loud emptying the dumpsters at 7am that it threw off my sleep cycle, but honestly it was because I was too bored to wake up. I have to whittle away the hours somehow. But I paid for the excessive slumber because I’ve had a pounding head all day, primarily behind my right eye, and no amount of coffee, tea, or cleaning the apartment will rid me of it.

              The moment comes where I can be inside no longer. I love this little space, with the rickety, soundless fan running the cool September air from the open windows into the tiny living room, and the floors that creak monstrously, and the glass doorknobs that look like crystal chandelier pieces, and the bathroom sink that has a faucet for hot water and a faucet for cold water, rendering me into moments of rapid decision making, situational awareness and site evaluation as I must decide which water temperature is most important and most bearable at that exact instant. But when my fingers are raw from the iron guitar strings, and my eyes swollen from the screen of my computer, and the kitchen floor clean enough to eat off of, I must leave.

              I go to this coffee shop just around the block. I hate it, but I’ve been there twice now. I sit at the counter bar at the picture window overlooking the street. I bring a notebook that I know I won’t write in, but I have to bring it anyway just in case I get the sudden notion to write. Mostly I read, because when I sit in this coffee shop, it is because I have grown tired of how things are and I need a change of scenery. Jack Kerouac has been my latest change of scenery, although in a way there’s no change at all because sometimes I see myself as the Sal Paradise of this own life I’m living. I guess it’s less like a change of scenery and more like a walk with a friend. But as I read, this dumb café blasts modern pop songs over the radio, with just enough R&B to give me a minor existential crisis. A coffee shop in Suicide City should not be playing music with a beat you’d hear at a department store on the East Coast. It just seems so wrong to me, but I’ll go back tomorrow probably.

              Anyway, then I check my phone and wonder who to text, but everyone out East is sleeping, and I’m not sure what we’d talk about anyway, so I put the phone down and go back to reading until it’s time to go home, and so I go home. They say the sunsets are good here. I think they’re right. I can see the clouds illuminated on the bits of the horizon visible past the city buildings as I walk, and I wish I could see it. Funny how the sun still sets here. But the fresh air is good; it abates my headache for a few minutes, so I sit down on a step outside of a little restaurant that looks alive, but I have yet to see open. I sit there looking at a car parked on the curb in front of me. I check my phone. Still no one to call. I fancy myself to be someone quite deep and pensive to be seated on such a curb at such a time as this, and I try to imagine Kerouac writing about Sal in such a place, but then I realize what waste of time it is and I stand up and I keep walking back to the flat.

              I’m hungry when I get home, and that frustrates me, because I really want to write (Kerouac can do that to you) but I’m also frustrated because I can’t write like Kerouac, so then I make food. I have three eggs, a bagel and a half, three apples, some cheese wedges, and this delicious raspberry-grape juice. I throw together scrambled eggs and cheese on a bagel. I go back to the table to write while it’s cooking, but I keep getting writer’s block, so then I go back to the stove and flip the eggs even though they’re still runny. I just need to do something sometimes.