Seattle: or, a post that isn’t about the process of writing but is writing


Trying something different. I mean, what’s the point of having a writing blog that doesn’t post any actual writing?

Besides, there’s no market for little snippets of nonfiction rife with run-ons and extremely tangential.

So. Seattle.

I took this photo (and that’s not Instagram, that’s Photoshop) staring out a balcony standing with the one guy friend I’ve really kept in touch with from high school, on a work trip I’d only signed up for so I could swing by to visit him, and then didn’t stay because. I said I needed to take a photo to prove I’d been to Seattle because what’s the point of going to Seattle if you don’t get a photo with the Space Needle in it?

He lives on Capitol Hill where all the hippies are. Priuses up and down the streets parked with the tires turned out the way they tell you to do on inclines, and yes Capitol Hill is an actual hill, with all kinds of ground-level textures where the downtown area–whatever it’s called–is almost as flat as Chicago (although with the thankful addition of the Sound, which by the way they do this cute clever thing calling the metro line the Wave…soundwave, get it?) and driving out to Olympia it all goes to forests and that.

Incidentally, Washington has one of the ugliest state capitols I’ve ever seen. I didn’t get close, but it’s this horrid streaked brown-grey-brown-red tones mess.

Anyway, I’d live in Seattle, for a year or two at least. I wish I’d hung out there longer, but I was unbelievably tired.


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