currently it is being used as a tree lot. i specifically visited at 'sunset', trying to be clever, but the wily light was too fleeting.
*
last night i went to hattie's to properly chronicle one of the oddest dreams i have ever had. i have only ever written on this blog (and i hate, LOATHE, the word 'blog'- please note) in a completely off-the-cuff, unedited fashion; but for this i am going to transcribe my barside ramblings instead of relive the weirdness.
i am such a pretentious asshole that i took a picture, by candlelight. bars in seattle like candles. perhaps this is why i like bars in seattle.
*start of transcript*
part 1
the dream: i have been warmly befriended by a group of women- loud, hilarious, heartfelt women with combat boots and flouncy ironic petticoats and bright shawls- bettie page hair and red lipstick and dangly earrings and lit cigarettes. they live, sorority-style, in a ramshackle house in the cd- in my mind, near 17th and jefferson. the paint is taupe, the yard scrubby dirt, the trees wintry and bare. there is a large deck that juts out over a carport. plastic deck chairs, dead hanging plants, xmas lights messily strung. they laugh hysterically at my anecdotes, say "how do you know shit like that?" with genuine respect, offer hugs and advice and drinks. they are also, as i realize, ritualistic killers. they murder people the way vampires attack- it is a need, a feeding. they are rueful but resigned. "some of them are really nice" they say soberly. there are various methods- throat-slitting is often involved. i am expected, as a new member of their fold, a recipient of their confidence, to eventually participate- "but we understand that it takes time." "it's really hard to get into" they say sympathetically. their kindness and empathy is disarming- and i am so flattered to be 'chosen' as their friend that i don't run like i should. i know, in the dream, that i will get to that mindset too- eventually. meanwhile, i observe and harden myself. they smell of perfume and flowers and giddily prepared meals, but there is decay in the corners. their usual methods of disposal have floundered- not wanting to draw too much attention to their goings-on, the dumpster-filling has been lax and corpses are stacked in the basement and stairwell. i walk past softened, slumped, reeking bodies, partially covered by tarps and raincoats, on my way to the washing machine, hoping my clothes don't retain the smell. the others make jokes about it. "it's getting pretty bad" they say. they are so convivial and extroverted that guests regularly come to the house- friends of theirs who may or may not know the extent of what goes on there. guys play volleyball in the bare yard. beer is drunk on the deck. a new friend, an acquaintance, is over for the first time- and she has no idea. she's nice, fairly peripheral, and we're all on the deck drinking and laughing and getting to know each other. "do you want another beer?" someone asks. she agrees. "there's more in the cooler in the basement" i say. "i'll show you." i forget. i am leading her down the narrow, bare-bulb-lit stairs and see the pile of bodies at the corner- seeping up from the basement. it smells horrible. and it's too late to turn around. why didn't i bring something to cover them? i'm thinking. the new girl is behind me, politely ignoring the stench- and has not yet noticed the corpses a few feet away.
part 2
one of the girls and i are walking down 17th. the road is gravel. it's overcast and cold. midday. we are headed north. her skirt is billowing. we're on our way to get food, or a drink. we pass a funeral parlor. "have you ever been in there?" i ask. "they have the coolest displays-old costumes." she enthusiastically agrees to see. the building is single-story, squat, bad late-'60s architecture, no discernable outer qualities. it could be a low-income day care or a rural prefab church. we enter through generic doors, streaky glass. the ceiling is low, acoustic, leak-stained. the walls are dingy white, half-panelled with fake wood. the carpet- low-pile industrial, blue-grey, dirty- and a 'path' of yellowed linoleum covers the room in a pentagon shape. the center and corners are filled with caskets- empty, for it is a funeral parlor- like a sick furniture showroom. the area is lit by buzzing, exposed fluoresent lights. no one else is there. and in the fifth corner is the display area. there are 'models' of burial options- like fortune-telling games, or old nickelodeons- glass boxes with bodies in frilly lavender finery, sitting in doily-covered wingback armchairs, at pianos, reclining on ruffly beds. they are all women. all enclosed in glass and metal framework- except for the bed, which is open-air but protected by a dusty velvet rope.
*
i awake at 4:21am. the room is black. i am flat on my back with my arms crossed over my chest- not a typical posture. i remember falling asleep on my side with my arms to my chest- it was cold. the cats are beside me. i lay there for a moment before i remember and start to gasp. i am spooked, panicked, wondering what i woke up for. i squint into the dimness, almost expecting to see someone, curious if i will find out later that someone i know died at 4:21am. the sleeping cats remind me that there is probably not an intruder. the house is so fucking quiet at night. i wonder if i made any noise while i dreamed. there is no one around to tell me.
it took several minutes to fall back asleep. i referenced it on facebook that morning. f wrote back: maybe it's like the tarot death card: change. that made me feel much better. death is never a bad thing- and nothing in the dream was bad. never did i feel scared, or unsafe, or otherwise icky- just a mild sensation of unease- a sense that "this is weird and probably not right- but i can completely understand why it's happening." the most unnerving part of the dream, really? it highlighted how lonely i really am.
since then i have also been realizing: how do i conjure this shit, having never seen a really dead body, having never been in anything like those situations, doubting that death-nickelodeons even exist- where the fuck does that come from? and why? in such detail? my grandfathers were sterile and made up- the only dead people- dead people facially- that i have ever seen. how do i know what it really looks like, when a body breaks down and slumps upon itself, when the eyes get filmy and the skin turns yellow at the top and purple-grey underneath? and why, WHY do i fucking dream about it? and participate in said dream- self-conscious, conscientious, a bit unnerved, but ultimately looking out for my own aesthetic comfort?
detachment is the key to survival.
perspective is the second key element.
empathy is a very close third.
*end of transcript*
i did not edit any of this. so i now have proof that, 1.5 gin and tonics in, i become much more liberal with my underlining and expletives.
*
snow was predicted yesterday. it blew castratingly-cold wind instead. the sky was clear when i went to bed around midnight. but at 5:30am, when (by my consistently cruel body clock, i am physically unable to sleep more than six hours at a time, ever) i woke up, the world was once again silent and aglow!
since i started writing this, another 1/2" has fallen. there are at least 3 inches on the ground. the last day of the school term is hopefully cancelled- i already took (and PASSED!) all my finals, i need to do laundry for work, and i feel like a fucking sloth.
now that the term, which all but handed my ass to me, is over, i can finally admit: my bitterness about school had a lot less to do with school and a lot more to do with me, with feeling overwhelmed and alone and unsupported. i had to try very, very hard to stay afloat, do well, study, focus. usually, if something proves at all challenging, or at least not automatically accessible, i lose interest. i pretend i never cared anyway.
but i PASSED, so- yeah. fuck yeah, actually.
and this is awesome:
http://www.fuckyoupenguin.blogspot.com
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