That is how much time has passed since the last post. I wonder if I've done myself a disservice by failing to record anything from that period. Friendships have formed, plants have grown and wilted, food has been prepared and consumed, arguments have arisen and been resolved, ideas have been entertained and tossed aside, art has been acquired, and dreams have taken new shape. How many experiences will be lost to an unfaithful memory? Mine is pretty darn good, but I have to assume some details are already fuzzing out from lack of recall.
Anyway, after seven months here I can say with conviction that I am smitten with Seattle. It's a strange place and that's what I like about it. It certainly has the potential to be my home for several years to come. Despite my early doubts, there is in fact a fun dance scene here, full of characters to be loved and despised. After experimenting with a few crowds, I have found a niche at a particular studio in Fremont which has proven itself to be the most chill of all salsa studios.
I've been reading a lot. A LOT. I feel like my head is a bumper car ring with all these ideas and images going around and around and chocando with each other. Every time I wake up the electricity gets switched on and all the cars start running. Each novel, article, comic, and occasional nonfiction book becomes a new car on the ring, increasing the number of collisions. It gets confusing.
In other news, I have a pink wig. It makes me feel like a super hero.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Images from the Western Frontier
Gas Works Park
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| Rain |
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| This is why the trees are always green |
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| Moss on the roof (it grows everywhere) and hail on the roof from the wild thunderstorm |
Seattle: Home?
Definitely not yet.
I've read some odd things about this place. It was one of the last places colonized by Americans in the whole country. No one really got here until the mid-1800s because of all those mountains in the way. In 1851 a couple of guys from New York came out here intending to make it the hip new American city, even dubbing it "New York Pretty Soon." That didn't pan out, and the people of Seattle were kind of upset about it. They then went the way of all previously established areas of civilization and wiped out the Native American population, then attempted to eradicate all the Chinese and Japanese. Everyone feels bad about that now, of course.
Fast forward to the 1950s and '60s: newspaper columns feature headlines like "Have a nice day -- somewhere else!" and "Our suicide rate is one of the highest in the nation. But we can be No. 1!"
Even today, Seattle is most famous for rain and grunge rock, neither particularly happy things. Today Toby remarked that everyone here looks like somebody's wayward cousin, and a few days ago he voiced the opinion that most people look like they could survive just fine if you dropped them in the middle of a forest with no campsite within 10 miles. He has a point. In terms of appearance, a lot of folks out here give the impression of self-reliance, affinity with nature, and aversion to all things mainstream. Obviously Toby loves it. However, he also said later that he believes the two of us belong here.
Wait. The two of us? Meaning not just him, but me too? Where do I fit into this picture?! Wayward, grunge, and outdoorsy are all adjectives that do not describe me. My favorite places in the world are drenched with sun. As far as I was concerned, L.A. was perfection. Year-round dry heat and sun every day. It also had my two other favorite things, crazy awesome food and dancing. A typical good day in L.A. for me would probably go something like this: awaken to a room already brimming with sunshine, shower, cursory towel wipe down and leave the rest to air dry. Listen to the latin music streaming from my neighbors three houses down. Lunch of kimchee tacos from the Korean BBQ/Mexican food truck. Dance practice with the ballroom team. Dinner from the Indian restaurant down the block. Get all dressed up and go salsa dancing until 2AM, then get some late night Chinese or Mexican. I feel like I'd have to undergo some serious changes to actually belong here. I don't know if Toby is hopeful or delusional, but I think it's a stretch to make that statement this early in the game.
I've read some odd things about this place. It was one of the last places colonized by Americans in the whole country. No one really got here until the mid-1800s because of all those mountains in the way. In 1851 a couple of guys from New York came out here intending to make it the hip new American city, even dubbing it "New York Pretty Soon." That didn't pan out, and the people of Seattle were kind of upset about it. They then went the way of all previously established areas of civilization and wiped out the Native American population, then attempted to eradicate all the Chinese and Japanese. Everyone feels bad about that now, of course.
Fast forward to the 1950s and '60s: newspaper columns feature headlines like "Have a nice day -- somewhere else!" and "Our suicide rate is one of the highest in the nation. But we can be No. 1!"
Even today, Seattle is most famous for rain and grunge rock, neither particularly happy things. Today Toby remarked that everyone here looks like somebody's wayward cousin, and a few days ago he voiced the opinion that most people look like they could survive just fine if you dropped them in the middle of a forest with no campsite within 10 miles. He has a point. In terms of appearance, a lot of folks out here give the impression of self-reliance, affinity with nature, and aversion to all things mainstream. Obviously Toby loves it. However, he also said later that he believes the two of us belong here.
Wait. The two of us? Meaning not just him, but me too? Where do I fit into this picture?! Wayward, grunge, and outdoorsy are all adjectives that do not describe me. My favorite places in the world are drenched with sun. As far as I was concerned, L.A. was perfection. Year-round dry heat and sun every day. It also had my two other favorite things, crazy awesome food and dancing. A typical good day in L.A. for me would probably go something like this: awaken to a room already brimming with sunshine, shower, cursory towel wipe down and leave the rest to air dry. Listen to the latin music streaming from my neighbors three houses down. Lunch of kimchee tacos from the Korean BBQ/Mexican food truck. Dance practice with the ballroom team. Dinner from the Indian restaurant down the block. Get all dressed up and go salsa dancing until 2AM, then get some late night Chinese or Mexican. I feel like I'd have to undergo some serious changes to actually belong here. I don't know if Toby is hopeful or delusional, but I think it's a stretch to make that statement this early in the game.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
New Life, post #1
First week in Seattle + First week living with Toby. It's been pretty good!
These things also coincided with the first week of Lent (I'm giving up food with additives) and some of the worst period cramps I have ever experienced. Given that, things could have gone a whole lot worse. But so far the people of Seattle have been warm and welcoming and I am truly enjoying transforming our new apartment into a home.
About Seattle: yes, it does rain a far amount, and yes I've had some good coffee. The rain has been mostly misty, though, and I've decided that it will never factor into my plans for the day. If I need groceries, I'm still going out. Toby and I even went to Gas Works Park in the rain. It was great.
My days have mainly consisted of unpacking boxes, trips to department stores, moving furniture, and lots of cleaning. Now that the space is livable, I've turned my attentions to making it beautiful. The desk I have claimed as the home for my computer needs to be painted, several tables need to be refinished, and I really want to start a garden. The first two plans are totally within my skill set, since I spent last summer fixing up a whole house, but the garden bit is new to me. My family never kept plants, so I don't know anything about making herbs or flowers grow. I hope I don't kill anything, but that does seem inevitable. I've decided that the first flowers I attempt will be geraniums hanging from the railing on the porch (to make my home more Spanish) and the first herbs will probably be rosemary and cilantro (because they're delicious).
I'm hoping to use this blog as a place for reflection in the upcoming weeks. It will be a place to jot down revelations about living with another person, triumphs in new adventures, and random musings.
These things also coincided with the first week of Lent (I'm giving up food with additives) and some of the worst period cramps I have ever experienced. Given that, things could have gone a whole lot worse. But so far the people of Seattle have been warm and welcoming and I am truly enjoying transforming our new apartment into a home.
About Seattle: yes, it does rain a far amount, and yes I've had some good coffee. The rain has been mostly misty, though, and I've decided that it will never factor into my plans for the day. If I need groceries, I'm still going out. Toby and I even went to Gas Works Park in the rain. It was great.
My days have mainly consisted of unpacking boxes, trips to department stores, moving furniture, and lots of cleaning. Now that the space is livable, I've turned my attentions to making it beautiful. The desk I have claimed as the home for my computer needs to be painted, several tables need to be refinished, and I really want to start a garden. The first two plans are totally within my skill set, since I spent last summer fixing up a whole house, but the garden bit is new to me. My family never kept plants, so I don't know anything about making herbs or flowers grow. I hope I don't kill anything, but that does seem inevitable. I've decided that the first flowers I attempt will be geraniums hanging from the railing on the porch (to make my home more Spanish) and the first herbs will probably be rosemary and cilantro (because they're delicious).
I'm hoping to use this blog as a place for reflection in the upcoming weeks. It will be a place to jot down revelations about living with another person, triumphs in new adventures, and random musings.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Practicalities
I realized recently a very practical reason for waiting until one's marriage to move out of one's childhood home: a wedding is the perfect occasion for friends and family to help you furnish your new place. Moving into a new apartment is a lot of work, and you have to start a whole household from scratch! That is a big financial investment. All of the household items I've been using suddenly seem so much more valuable. That Kitchenaid mixer that blends my cookie ingredients? I don't get to take that. The assortment of spatulas, the cookie sheets, the toaster oven, all will be left because they're not really mine. They belong to my parents.
There are, of course, positives and negatives about this. On the plus side, I get to pick out my own stuff. I have all the decision-making power when choosing my own belongings (well, not 100%, since Toby has a say too). On the other hand, this will cost hundreds of dollars. Having an extreme aversion to debt, I will probably purchase these things one by one over a period of several months. Maybe one small item (like a bread pan) a week and one larger piece of equipment (like a food processor) every one or two months. I think this could make for a fun series of posts.
Also, I've moving in two weeks. Gah! Toby is already in Seattle making living arrangements. He says it's wonderful. Somehow I will make it through this waiting period. Maybe I should finish that book on Cleopatra that's due back at the library soon.
There are, of course, positives and negatives about this. On the plus side, I get to pick out my own stuff. I have all the decision-making power when choosing my own belongings (well, not 100%, since Toby has a say too). On the other hand, this will cost hundreds of dollars. Having an extreme aversion to debt, I will probably purchase these things one by one over a period of several months. Maybe one small item (like a bread pan) a week and one larger piece of equipment (like a food processor) every one or two months. I think this could make for a fun series of posts.
Also, I've moving in two weeks. Gah! Toby is already in Seattle making living arrangements. He says it's wonderful. Somehow I will make it through this waiting period. Maybe I should finish that book on Cleopatra that's due back at the library soon.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
In the dark of the night...
Today our heroine faces a most gruesome enemy: paranoia. It sprang out at her suddenly, like the homeless man behind the garbage pail in San Francisco. It was not the gradually creeping sort at all. She was startled almost out of her wits! By what, you ask, dear readers? A sound. An irregular tipping, tapping sound right at her window. A sound not commonly heard in wintertime. Snow makes no sound at all, and wind causes a different sound when it sweeps the branches of close trees on the wall by the bed. This is a different sound. A sometimes solitary, sometimes quick succession of taps. Is it creaking? Could the wall be buckling beneath the weight of snow on the roof? The last several storms left 3 feet of snow in the yard, how much has accumulated on the house? Every day there is a story on the news about a building whose roof has collapsed. Airplane hangers, stores, greenhouses, all have crumbled under the pressure. But all of those roofs are flat. How flat is our quivering heroine's? Why has she never cared to look! There are also the trees to consider. Numerous trees have lost branches or completely fallen over. The snow and ice weigh heavily on their branches, forcing them down from their lofty stature. A tree could fall onto the roof, breaking its already faltering will to hold up against terrible stress, causing the whole structure to come down into her supposedly safe and cozy bed! How can the parents sleep through this terror?!
And yet, the possibility exists that these sounds are not in fact harbingers of a horrifying end for our dear girl. There is a fine drizzle tonight, and the temperature is 34 degrees fahrenheit. Just above freezing. It's possible that the light rain and comparatively warm air are melting the snow. The unsettling noises could be the sound of water dripping. Perhaps the icicles are loosening their grips on the gutter and are falling to their well-deserved peril (icicles are nasty characters, as anyone who has examined them would rightly know).
As the girl considers the latter proposition, she remembers the wise words of her highly educated doctor. "Calm down." Yes, yes, we must remember the powerful capability of the mind to create unlikely scenarios. Twice already (a third incident was narrowly avoided) our poor heroine had worked herself into such a terrified frenzy that she fainted. She was examined by professionals with expensive medical equipment, and it was deduced that there are no problems with her heart or brain, so the episodes of syncope must have been caused by mental and/or emotional stress. 'Yes,' she thinks to herself, 'I have been silly. I've been foolish. I must not worry like an old woman.' So she took some deep breaths and with only some hesitation retired to her bed with a book.
And yet, the possibility exists that these sounds are not in fact harbingers of a horrifying end for our dear girl. There is a fine drizzle tonight, and the temperature is 34 degrees fahrenheit. Just above freezing. It's possible that the light rain and comparatively warm air are melting the snow. The unsettling noises could be the sound of water dripping. Perhaps the icicles are loosening their grips on the gutter and are falling to their well-deserved peril (icicles are nasty characters, as anyone who has examined them would rightly know).
As the girl considers the latter proposition, she remembers the wise words of her highly educated doctor. "Calm down." Yes, yes, we must remember the powerful capability of the mind to create unlikely scenarios. Twice already (a third incident was narrowly avoided) our poor heroine had worked herself into such a terrified frenzy that she fainted. She was examined by professionals with expensive medical equipment, and it was deduced that there are no problems with her heart or brain, so the episodes of syncope must have been caused by mental and/or emotional stress. 'Yes,' she thinks to herself, 'I have been silly. I've been foolish. I must not worry like an old woman.' So she took some deep breaths and with only some hesitation retired to her bed with a book.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Leaving On a Jet Plane... Again
Another year, another move.
For my whole life, I have been moving. My first move occurred when I was 3 months old, and it was a cross-country move, like many other moves would be. I have lived in 4 California cities, 1 Massachusetts city, and 2 Brazilian cities. Not, of course, in that order, there was much more bopping around back and forth, but it's easier to write about in that grouping.
So you'd think I would be used to it by now, but in fact moving has become harder and harder as I get older. When I was a kid, I didn't have to pack anything except for my toys. I never had the traumatic experience of losing a friend because I was very social and easily made friends wherever I went, and school always kept me occupied and happy. But now there is an entire household of furniture to think about, and other responsibilities like paying rent, registering a car, finding a job, and making friends requires more effort when there are no built in activities like there were in school.
There is also the accumulation of stuff. Oh, so much STUFF, so many THINGS. I kept most of it because I thought, "This might be useful to have at some later point," or "Oh, this reminds me of [insert special person or place or event]." I'm only 23, yet I feel like I might need to take on the sort of mass purging that many women in their 40s and 50s are doing. I have toys from my childhood that I kept for their sentimental value and because you can't buy them anymore and maybe my future children would like them. But is that rational? Should I spend the money to keep them with me, or burden my parents by taking up a bunch of space for my old toys in the basement? (Note: I thought about this while I was watching Toy Story 3, with tears streaming down my face.) And am I really going to read through the notes I took in my college courses? Will I need the papers I wrote for future reference? Maybe some? Which ones? And the books. Oh, the books. As a reader since the age of 5 and an English major, I must have hundreds of books. It certainly feels that way. I love them, and I know paper is heavy, but I don't know how I could get rid of them.
This next move is particularly big because it's also the first time I'm going to move in with my boyfriend. Me! Living with a man! I'm also moving to a city I've never been to and I don't know where I'll be living because he's going ahead of me and picking the apartment. If that doesn't show trust, I don't know what does.
For my whole life, I have been moving. My first move occurred when I was 3 months old, and it was a cross-country move, like many other moves would be. I have lived in 4 California cities, 1 Massachusetts city, and 2 Brazilian cities. Not, of course, in that order, there was much more bopping around back and forth, but it's easier to write about in that grouping.
So you'd think I would be used to it by now, but in fact moving has become harder and harder as I get older. When I was a kid, I didn't have to pack anything except for my toys. I never had the traumatic experience of losing a friend because I was very social and easily made friends wherever I went, and school always kept me occupied and happy. But now there is an entire household of furniture to think about, and other responsibilities like paying rent, registering a car, finding a job, and making friends requires more effort when there are no built in activities like there were in school.
There is also the accumulation of stuff. Oh, so much STUFF, so many THINGS. I kept most of it because I thought, "This might be useful to have at some later point," or "Oh, this reminds me of [insert special person or place or event]." I'm only 23, yet I feel like I might need to take on the sort of mass purging that many women in their 40s and 50s are doing. I have toys from my childhood that I kept for their sentimental value and because you can't buy them anymore and maybe my future children would like them. But is that rational? Should I spend the money to keep them with me, or burden my parents by taking up a bunch of space for my old toys in the basement? (Note: I thought about this while I was watching Toy Story 3, with tears streaming down my face.) And am I really going to read through the notes I took in my college courses? Will I need the papers I wrote for future reference? Maybe some? Which ones? And the books. Oh, the books. As a reader since the age of 5 and an English major, I must have hundreds of books. It certainly feels that way. I love them, and I know paper is heavy, but I don't know how I could get rid of them.
This next move is particularly big because it's also the first time I'm going to move in with my boyfriend. Me! Living with a man! I'm also moving to a city I've never been to and I don't know where I'll be living because he's going ahead of me and picking the apartment. If that doesn't show trust, I don't know what does.
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