Our first winter with our Seattle apartment, living in two places.
I spent winter solstice there, alone with the camera, and did one of my favorite things: I just WALKED. Under the viaduct — always a fixture in my idea of Seattle — knowing it will be gone. South towards where my dad worked at Western Union in the seventies, where I loved all of that grey old-fashioned industry that always looked too old and tired to bustle and has never ever looked like it should last.
I wonder how it will all crumble, and hope I’m not there when it does. In the meantime I love/hate it, just like this.
The portable office-shelters tucked in between concrete pillars and under ramps and roads remind me of model train layouts with little lights glowing inside.
I felt at home — comfortable like I rarely feel in the city — with tiny little cold drops of water accumulating on my face and hands and the plastic baggie I had over the camera.
On the way back “home” I stopped for Yankee pot roast and mashed potatoes and gravy somewhere I swore to myself I would never patronize. I asked the host to seat me at their LEAST FESTIVE TABLE. He understood.
When I got back, dozens of drunk Santas were milling around and I wished I had a budget to proposition a few of them to make porn.