i was once told i had tie-dyed eyes

that decadent melancholy when the air on exposed skin is like the last touch you know you'll get from your true love... yeah... that was yesterday afternoon. i went to one of my favorite places, the conservatory at volunteer park, and drew the plants i was most fascinated by. euphorbia balsamifera: "this plant radiates peace," i scrawled next to the picture. apparently i was feeling rather schlocky. i sat on a park bench and watched people watlk their dogs, long shadows over lurid green. "bin gay?" someone had written on the concrete beneath me. i wondered how many acts of sodomy had occured where i sat.
irvine welch did a reading at elliott bay books. i got there in time to hear a story of a man who thinks he's accidentally put a hex on someone, so he goes to a witch to see if it is, in fact, possible, and reversible. he has no money. she says she can only help him if he has sex with her. she is a corpulent, homely woman. but he does. in grotesque detail. irvine welch stories make me want to never stop bathing. the man himself: about six feet tall, bald, untucked t-shirt, delightfully incoherent brogue, smiled a lot. someone asked if he got his ideas from personal experiences. "based on what i just read, i am reluctant to answer that" he answered. he said that the early twenties and mid-forties are the ages he's most intrigued by, because they are both eras of dissonance, personal reevaluation, confusion... when you question who and why you are. i agree. afterwards i walked through downtown, which grows incredibly seedy at night, and waited at the bus stop as a tiny, glowering man slumped over in his electronic wheelchair glided back and forth. he would stop in front of me and glare from the corner of his eye. it was rather unnerving, especially since his head only came up to my waist. "hello" i said politely. he hacked a bit and drifted off.
today: triage, relentless, hot sun, nonstop running. one of my coworkers made fresh rolls in the lounge. they seemed to put everyone in a good mood. i fucking love my job. it is almost one a.m. and i am still riding the high of competency. i am not even going to waste time on worrying when it will abate.
blasphemous confession: i really do not like elvis' music, never have, and i never need to hear any of his songs again. the pop-culture, peacock-windowed, sweat-soaked myth: transfixing. thank you, random sirius station, for reminding me of this.