Sandy is not used to the attention and hides her smile out in the cold air a thousand feet up above the dark lights of Seattle. But I see it reflected in the glass and reach out a hand to touch her cheek. "Really," I say, "you were hard to approach. What man wouldn`t have a hard time approaching one of your crew?" It`s my turn to feel the rush of warm blood to my face. I remember the celebration of the crowded bar and how she had been ringed by her teammates. I remember the sight of one woman, thick and strong, reach back with a fist and lay out a man who had pinched one of her teammates. Rowdy, obnoxious and alive with vibrant energy, the Rat City Rollergirls had taken over the dingy bar, spreading raucous, rolling conversation and the sweat of shared victory with the whole room. She had quickly caught my eye, red hair thrown around as she danced the Rat mambo. They were still in their uniforms and it clung to her like a second skin, the body of a racer meant to sprint out front and hold the line. Daring and brave I imagined she was the heart of the team and had every member battering the rival teams down to protect her. That I had chosen to slip through the barrier of teammates and kiss her suddenly was my mistake.
"That was quite a kisser you had. I`m suprised Laura didn`t kill you outright for putting the moves on me like that." Sandy laughs at the memory. "But I liked your style and damn glad I decided to talk to after you came around."
We had hit it off, finding a similar interest in pushing the limits of the body, myself competing in distance running events. I asked her out on the spot, promising a fully romantic night of wining and dining in the sky.
"You look different in a dress, like a flower instead of a bloodied warrior." This was the truth and somehow I sensed she appreciated the dainty and feminine things but had to keep in secret in the world of roller derbies.
"Look," she says, reaching out and taking my hand, "That`s a different side of me, a more public side that revels in the aggression and competition. You, me, thats a private side that I like. That you had the balls to intervene between the two, I like that even more. So lets enjoy this and maybe this can be more than a Saturday night free skate."
I smile and toast her with a glass of red wine. "To a future of life outside the athletic, outside the competition. To sudden friendships and deeper realtionships." Our glasses clink and the sound seems to symbolize a new future of love and exploration.
Far out over the dark cityscape a light suddenly blooms large and orange. It draws the attraction of the room and we all look over through the glass. "Was that an explosion," I hear one woman ask. A small mushroom of flame and smoke rises up above the burning sight of a gutted building. The whispers and raising hysterical cries of "Terrorist!" go up here and there. Sandy looks at me with a hint of fear, wide eyes asking me to tell her its nothing. The restaurant continues to turn and soon the flames are out of sight.
This time I can feel the whole Needle quiver under the shockwave. Two huge balls of flame rise up past the windows which rattle slightly in their molding. "My god," someone screams, "the Columbia Tower and Pacific Place have been hit." By what is not clear but even I can see the shattered remains on the street and the jagged teeth of the lower half sticking up. Some of the restaurant patrons are fleeing for the elevators when a glare stabs shadows up the wall. I turn and see a spreading wall of light coming from the northern peninsula, sweeping down skyscrapers and sending the dark rain clouds into nothingness. "Hold on!" I shout, grabbing Sandy and diving for the floor.
The lights fail. The structure shakes and somewhere windows shatter. The world goes black.
"John!" slap, a sting across my face. I awake with a table covering half my body. "John, get up goddammit!" Sandy is shouting into my face, looking so regal and beautiful when she`s angry. "What are you smiling about? Look!" And I do, sitting up and clearing my eyes. I`m looking at the ceiling, why? I look down beneath the table, and see a million flickering flames and the guttering remains of a destroyed Seattle. The entire top of the Space Needle has tilted downwards, hanging by the strong steel of the elevator cable. The windows are smashed and our table lies wedged in the frame of one.
"Jesus," I cry. "Was it nuclear?" "Does it matter?" she moans, and I realize shes right. The groans of a straining cable reach my ears and maybe we are not as safe as I thought. "I love you," I say. "I know," she says, "I should have said it too earlier. Were we such fools?" I hug her tight, feeling the years we should have had, the right to grow old in love and life fading. Her hand finds mine and in her eyes I see the fear and it hurts me that I cannot do anything except hold her tight. "Hold on" is all I can say.
The twang of parted steel and the rush of wind through broken windows and the growing ground of flames, stone and eternity.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Seattle and the sunset
"Goddamn, another gray and gloomy day in Seattle." The thought spikes through the sharp hangover, overcrowding my head that throbs from my roommate`s party the night before. The inevitable bump in the road, the bad shocks on the bus and I regret the morning commute already. Why had I promised myself a bit of culture in this soggy city? Some drunk regret, bemoaning too many days drowned in the bars and clubs dotting the cities sparkling avenues? Last night`s revelry, a whirling memory spent along Alki`s main drag, hitting the classy Southern-themed bars and the upper-class dames that accompany them. The reciepts in my pocket shows the night ending in the Shack, lowest of low, farthest North you can get on Alki before the land gives in to the industrial wasteland of shipping and trade. I remember flashes of black miniskirts, impassioned chicks wasting their life stories on a guys too melancholy to care and a row of chrome bikes dominoing down under the boot of some angry pencil-neck. I lean my head against the cold window and exhale, wondering what life amounts to if this is the best I have to look forward to? Nights of cloudy forgetfullness followed by the sharp reality of an overcast morning? No one deserves the harsh cut of downtown Seattle on a Saturday morning.
The bus arcs out into the vague area under the West Seattle bridge, an area less a destination and more a vagrant looking for handouts. It subsists on those unfortunates unable to escape the blocks of rundown hotels, closed on-ramps and broken asphalted parking lots. The giant palace of an obscenity, Costco, rises above the downtrodden like a fat-bellied Monarch. So many stream pass the squat second-hand stores to visit the cheap and vastly-made. I think about yanking the cord, getting off in this district and hanging out on a street corner. I figure I have good odds, either held-up or discover some epiphany of the modern street man. But my bravery lies elsewhere today, saved up for the mass congregating humanity that lies within the corridors of steel and glass in 4th avenue.
All the drinks I stirred blend into the faces of the women I talked to, both equally lost to feeling. What was I seeking in liberation of alcohol? Sure, intelligence fueled by the swirling chemical drinks equals the deeper layers of revealing conversation, but if those layers are full of deceit, angst, cynicism and love of hate then what is the point of mentioning the love of the good and joyous of this city and its vibrant philosophy? The smoke of a shared cigarette flit up between the moth-filled lamplight as I lingered with a particular girl outside the bar. The nearby pine trees swelled with the wind and the scent of salt floated off the Pugent Sound. The moon arose from the cloak of clouds and shone full on the murky darkness of the waters just off the point. It was a beauty directly opposite of the pure and wondrous nature of deep forests and high mountains. How could I tell this woman across from me of a love for this city? It consumes some times, a conflict with passion for image and notoriety this city seems to possess. The rest is muddy swirl of dancing senses.
Outside the hissing pneumatic doors, the city greets me in its morning glory. Subdued light fails to glare on every window, muted shadows reduce lines and form to some shabby aesthetic on par with the homeless man shuffling towards me for coffee change. I stand on the corner of Pike and 2nd, feeling like some 1920`s fresh face on Wall Street, full of hope for a nation and enough vigor to raise to skyscrapers to the sky. Perhaps it is the waning alcohol leaving the body but I feel dry and sieved through of all the negativity poured on by months of being buried under a thankless job. But its all nothing staring up at the likes of the Seattle Art Museum or the chaotic jumble of breathless construction that is the Pike Place Market. I feel Im breathing in a piece of Seattle, a bit of its crazed and maniac creation, but also its planned and stately genius for great expressions.
Words come and flow out, building the foundations of the hills and alley of the city. I find inspiration among the fluttering seagulls and hissing air vents among the lower streets. The day turns drizzly, driving me inside Ivars for a bit to eat. The Sound is now choppy and turbulent, like a petulant child wanting a sweet. How it mirrors our souls here in the Pacific Northwest. So steadily focused and vigilant on life advancing; yet come the stirring of some tempest and we slosh the dikes, spilling great waves over the littlest outcry. These thoughts drove me out and over the spilling lanes of traffic to the Columbia tower; black crystal and reflecting glass, high and higher to the rafters of the city. My toes touched the roofs of seattle; all its ugly boxes and slanting shapes. I wanted to reach out and command some to rise and some to vanish; shape the very cityscape of my birth.
Under a caffeine-fueled depression I wandered the limbo that is Seattle Center looking for any shamanistic symbolization of meaning. A mistake, for all it contains is caricatures of childhood and an overeager directorship eager to please the almighty council of members. Science, in all its vague forms, directed me towards the ways to learn. I saw the failing actors and struggling writers finding some outlet for creativity in the theater for wayward visitors. What joy I hoped to find is unclear now but as the light faded I found myself on the great expanse of lawn in front of the main stage. So lonely and characteristic of Seattle that a single tear swept down my face. The western sky lay open through the countless buildings and the clouds contrived to shut out the day to my enjoyment.
Cold and shivering among the low-cut blades of grass, I slowly sipped my mocha and meditated on the gloomy surroundings. Suddenly a bright ray of sun struck my eye and illuminated the field of green. An un-looked for save had appeared. Like the rare butterfly that flutters onto your finger, the clouds had cleared to feature the sun in its last 15 minutes of life. So bloody and orange that it brought to mind the gleamings of gold. So beautiful my cynicism faded. It glanced off the Space Needle, shot between the EMP`S multifaceted windows and radiated from a thousand polished steel beams of the Seattle Library to strike me with infinite renewal of hope for a city that seemed drowned in the seen it all and nothing new experience. For a brief second the air warmed a few degrees and life did too, my whole perception of the world heating up and happily changing in those short moments of sunset.
The bus arcs out into the vague area under the West Seattle bridge, an area less a destination and more a vagrant looking for handouts. It subsists on those unfortunates unable to escape the blocks of rundown hotels, closed on-ramps and broken asphalted parking lots. The giant palace of an obscenity, Costco, rises above the downtrodden like a fat-bellied Monarch. So many stream pass the squat second-hand stores to visit the cheap and vastly-made. I think about yanking the cord, getting off in this district and hanging out on a street corner. I figure I have good odds, either held-up or discover some epiphany of the modern street man. But my bravery lies elsewhere today, saved up for the mass congregating humanity that lies within the corridors of steel and glass in 4th avenue.
All the drinks I stirred blend into the faces of the women I talked to, both equally lost to feeling. What was I seeking in liberation of alcohol? Sure, intelligence fueled by the swirling chemical drinks equals the deeper layers of revealing conversation, but if those layers are full of deceit, angst, cynicism and love of hate then what is the point of mentioning the love of the good and joyous of this city and its vibrant philosophy? The smoke of a shared cigarette flit up between the moth-filled lamplight as I lingered with a particular girl outside the bar. The nearby pine trees swelled with the wind and the scent of salt floated off the Pugent Sound. The moon arose from the cloak of clouds and shone full on the murky darkness of the waters just off the point. It was a beauty directly opposite of the pure and wondrous nature of deep forests and high mountains. How could I tell this woman across from me of a love for this city? It consumes some times, a conflict with passion for image and notoriety this city seems to possess. The rest is muddy swirl of dancing senses.
Outside the hissing pneumatic doors, the city greets me in its morning glory. Subdued light fails to glare on every window, muted shadows reduce lines and form to some shabby aesthetic on par with the homeless man shuffling towards me for coffee change. I stand on the corner of Pike and 2nd, feeling like some 1920`s fresh face on Wall Street, full of hope for a nation and enough vigor to raise to skyscrapers to the sky. Perhaps it is the waning alcohol leaving the body but I feel dry and sieved through of all the negativity poured on by months of being buried under a thankless job. But its all nothing staring up at the likes of the Seattle Art Museum or the chaotic jumble of breathless construction that is the Pike Place Market. I feel Im breathing in a piece of Seattle, a bit of its crazed and maniac creation, but also its planned and stately genius for great expressions.
Words come and flow out, building the foundations of the hills and alley of the city. I find inspiration among the fluttering seagulls and hissing air vents among the lower streets. The day turns drizzly, driving me inside Ivars for a bit to eat. The Sound is now choppy and turbulent, like a petulant child wanting a sweet. How it mirrors our souls here in the Pacific Northwest. So steadily focused and vigilant on life advancing; yet come the stirring of some tempest and we slosh the dikes, spilling great waves over the littlest outcry. These thoughts drove me out and over the spilling lanes of traffic to the Columbia tower; black crystal and reflecting glass, high and higher to the rafters of the city. My toes touched the roofs of seattle; all its ugly boxes and slanting shapes. I wanted to reach out and command some to rise and some to vanish; shape the very cityscape of my birth.
Under a caffeine-fueled depression I wandered the limbo that is Seattle Center looking for any shamanistic symbolization of meaning. A mistake, for all it contains is caricatures of childhood and an overeager directorship eager to please the almighty council of members. Science, in all its vague forms, directed me towards the ways to learn. I saw the failing actors and struggling writers finding some outlet for creativity in the theater for wayward visitors. What joy I hoped to find is unclear now but as the light faded I found myself on the great expanse of lawn in front of the main stage. So lonely and characteristic of Seattle that a single tear swept down my face. The western sky lay open through the countless buildings and the clouds contrived to shut out the day to my enjoyment.
Cold and shivering among the low-cut blades of grass, I slowly sipped my mocha and meditated on the gloomy surroundings. Suddenly a bright ray of sun struck my eye and illuminated the field of green. An un-looked for save had appeared. Like the rare butterfly that flutters onto your finger, the clouds had cleared to feature the sun in its last 15 minutes of life. So bloody and orange that it brought to mind the gleamings of gold. So beautiful my cynicism faded. It glanced off the Space Needle, shot between the EMP`S multifaceted windows and radiated from a thousand polished steel beams of the Seattle Library to strike me with infinite renewal of hope for a city that seemed drowned in the seen it all and nothing new experience. For a brief second the air warmed a few degrees and life did too, my whole perception of the world heating up and happily changing in those short moments of sunset.
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