Past present and future
Presently; I'm listening to the chain saws of the Seattle Tree Preservation society wailing away in our back yard. They are clearing some of the overzealous silviana on the slope so it retains the root structure that keeps it all from sliding onto Rainier ave.
Pastly; All I can remember of the week is my Vespa trip to SCCC Wednesday.
Was a nice warm day and Meredith tossed me out of the house earlier than usual, so I had time to wander about a little.
After coffee and croissant at the Queen Anne Starbucks, I took a walk along Q.A. ave from Boston to the Five Spot. Many changes since I lived there.
Drug store where there once was a BP station.
A laundromat now occupies the space Where Burnies (Best hashbrowns in the city) used to be.
Burnie's has moved around the corner and is now called Queen Anne Cafe.
There are some interesting historical photographic displays on the walls of the buildings and a book store where I looked into a large expensive book on the subject of Q.A. history to see if I could find the names anybody I knew, or mine.
Didn't find any so I walked on.
On the other side of the street at the local church, there was an interesting art installation consisting of decorated eight-foot stakes delineating a path one could walk to some ethereal purpose.
I didn't walk it.
Maybe I should have.
Another missed opportunity to connect with the everlasting mysteries of life.
Moped around like a malingering teenager for the rest of the week.
Quite possible due to a headacheless migraine sort of affair.
Last night I had the pleasure of the company of my book group friends for a lively discussion of a show of puppets at the Fry museum. I haven't seen the show, so I just made arch and ironic (my h-crit level is back to spec) comments.
Anything for a laugh.
Also, I spent an inordinate amount of time last week trying to make a rosette for the mandora project. After carefully cutting and gluing together hundreds of tiny pieces of wood, the thing turned out so crappily assembled that there was nothing for it but the scrap heap.
I'll have to think of some other form of decoration, I guess.
Anyway the violin and piano trio is assembled for the performance of the piano reduction of the 2 violin concerto at the composers salon on Sept 4 taking place at the Chapel at Good Shepard (50th & Sunnyside, 8:00 pm)
Futurely; Tomorrow and the Tomorrow after that and two other tomorrows this week we will be visiting a fantastic Schwarzwald, cheating construction companies, killing dragons, burning horses and many other psychological poignant imaginary activities as we once again visit
Sixteen hours of heavy Opera.
We mortals may be fools, but the Gods are like totally dis-funk-shun-all.
Can you dig it?
Pastly; All I can remember of the week is my Vespa trip to SCCC Wednesday.
Was a nice warm day and Meredith tossed me out of the house earlier than usual, so I had time to wander about a little.
After coffee and croissant at the Queen Anne Starbucks, I took a walk along Q.A. ave from Boston to the Five Spot. Many changes since I lived there.
Drug store where there once was a BP station.
A laundromat now occupies the space Where Burnies (Best hashbrowns in the city) used to be.
Burnie's has moved around the corner and is now called Queen Anne Cafe.
There are some interesting historical photographic displays on the walls of the buildings and a book store where I looked into a large expensive book on the subject of Q.A. history to see if I could find the names anybody I knew, or mine.
Didn't find any so I walked on.
On the other side of the street at the local church, there was an interesting art installation consisting of decorated eight-foot stakes delineating a path one could walk to some ethereal purpose.
I didn't walk it.
Maybe I should have.
Another missed opportunity to connect with the everlasting mysteries of life.
Moped around like a malingering teenager for the rest of the week.
Quite possible due to a headacheless migraine sort of affair.
Last night I had the pleasure of the company of my book group friends for a lively discussion of a show of puppets at the Fry museum. I haven't seen the show, so I just made arch and ironic (my h-crit level is back to spec) comments.
Anything for a laugh.
Also, I spent an inordinate amount of time last week trying to make a rosette for the mandora project. After carefully cutting and gluing together hundreds of tiny pieces of wood, the thing turned out so crappily assembled that there was nothing for it but the scrap heap.
I'll have to think of some other form of decoration, I guess.
Anyway the violin and piano trio is assembled for the performance of the piano reduction of the 2 violin concerto at the composers salon on Sept 4 taking place at the Chapel at Good Shepard (50th & Sunnyside, 8:00 pm)
Futurely; Tomorrow and the Tomorrow after that and two other tomorrows this week we will be visiting a fantastic Schwarzwald, cheating construction companies, killing dragons, burning horses and many other psychological poignant imaginary activities as we once again visit
"The Ring of the Nibelung".
Sixteen hours of heavy Opera.
We mortals may be fools, but the Gods are like totally dis-funk-shun-all.
Can you dig it?
posted by Lane Savant at 8:33 AM
6 Comments:
That's it! Chainsaw concerto! Why sculpt with them when you can play them as instruments? Palmer steps
up and out once more.
It must be strange to see
your own personal history
going through such change
over there atop Queen Anne
Hill. You lived there, what,
20+ years? When I returned from
California, a failed actor, but
a successful special Ed teacher,
I never thought that I, too,
could be estranged from the
city I grew up in, Seattle by the Sea. Yet here I am living in
the old armpit of the Northwest,
down, way down, in the
South Sound, here in Tacoma
by the Bay; Commencement not Elliott. Hell, I can barely
find my way around in Seattle
now. I left it in 1973, and
man has it morphed into some
Star Wars megalopolis bullshit.
Two lifetimes ago, several dead
friends and relatives ago,
when Seattle and I were
joined at the hip and heart,
I swore eternal allegience.
So much for city love and
oaths and swearing. Tacoma
has now captured my attention,
and for 25 years it has
sustained me, sort of.
I, too, once lived on
Queen Anne; in three different
places actually, one of them
being a roommate with Doug
at his fabulous pad for
some months, back when I
was just a Drama/English
major, back in 1970. Jesus,
was that really 39 years ago?
Having difficulty with my
pick up. No dash lights,
and no parking or taillights.
I went to my mechanic
yesterday, and he put in
a fuse, did not charge me,
and we both smiled. Yet
this morning when I started
up the Isuzu, the 1992 super
cab, the 2.75 liter wonder]
with 194,000 miles on it,
there were no dashlights,
parking lights, or taillights.
The security cops here on
the VA campus pulled me over
and said my brakelights are
OK, and the turn signals, so
no ticket, BUT take care of
business, sir! Yeah, yeah,
two bags full, rent-a-bull.
One hates to break it to you,
Dougie, but you have on a
spiritual path all your life,
bending it, twirling it,
spindling it, treading it
like 66 years, enit?
What would you have done
if in that book store, in
that large expensive book,
there had been a pic of you
and the Bristol? Would it
have made your day, brought
a grin to your mug? Actually,
it would have given you a
small taste of immortality,
right? Damn, Sept 4 is one
of my scheduled TFC screenings,
one of Paul Newman's tribute
films. The universe has conspired
to keep me down, down 70 miles
south of your career, your
performances, your daily life.
I must just be happy being
the cyber pal that picks at
the droppings left on your fabulous
and insightful postings.
So the Ring Cycle is made up
of four nights at four hours
each. Gottinhimmel! Das est
eins big dealish! Do you see
it every year, kind of like
those who make it to the
Nutcracker suite every holiday?
Glenn
Hey, where the deuce are the other
commenters? Never any rhyme or
reason to the turn out, enit?
I am still at home this fine feathered
Wednesday. My pick up is in the
shop, and Melva will take me to work
later this morning. I hate to violate
my morning routine like that, but
there it is; mechanical failure trumps
habitual behavior. I figured that since
the mechanic will have to check the
wiring to find out why the truck is
blowing fuses, then why not do the
semi-annual once over for the
Japanese critter as well--you know
the drill, tune up, check the hoses
and belts, rotate the tires, check the
battery and cables, pat it on its red
butt and give me a bill for 600 smackers.
At least. Having no taillights was a
real bummer, and safety hazard, even
though the brake lights were still
functional. Pal of mine, David G.,
who spends half his days at his
cabin in the mountains of Idaho,
emailed me a witty poem this
morning by a poet named Billy
Collins--yet another one I had
not read previously. The poem follows:
Despair
So much gloom and doubt in our poetry--
flowers wilting on the table,
the self regarding itself in a watery mirror.
Dead leaves cover the ground,
the wind moans in the chimney,
and the tendrils of the yew tree inch toward the coffin.
I wonder what the ancient Chinese poets
would make of all this,
these shadows and empty cupboards?
Today with the sun blazing in the trees,
my thoughts turn to the great
tenth-century celebrator of experience,
Wa-Hoo, whose delight in the smallest things
could hardly be restrained,
and to his joyous counterpart in the western provinves,
Yee-Hah.
Billy Collins
Somehow I felt that this is the kind of
levity that would appeal to Lane Savant.
Am I right, or am I right?
Glenn
Wait, wait, where the hell
art thou commenters?
I know thee exists, for I
can hear your banter,
your hushed whisperings
just behind the wallpaper,
under the 30 framed degrees
and awards that decorate
my office walls, amongst the
trees outside my window,
under the dock that juts
out into American Lake like
a penis implant for the
infirmed and the fish lovers,
under my desk, in my cabinet,
behind my printer, behind my
door, under the calendar;
dirty dogs that taunt me,
or perhaps not dirty, nor
dogs, just disembodied voices
that filter down to me
from on high, or down low,
or under my big toe--
damn it, I know you are there.
Show yourselves.
I dare you.
Glenn
Ooo, chainsaws, you're speaking my language of luuuv.
Love hashbrowns.
Love rosettes.
And now have a picture in my head of some big lady tossing some little guy out of a second story window like a pile of rumpled sheets, but he lands sprightly in a bush, brushes off the twigs and whistles merrily off to a coffee shop.
Hallo, Lane´!
Why do you continue to patronize Starbucks, whose owner is the only person more dispicable than the residence on the 5th floor of the high-rise @ 2nd & Union, SE side)??
Hallo, Lane!
The word on the 4th line of the above comment should be "residents", not "residence"!
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