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Will
pulled
me in on a painting job in West Seattle, nothing
too fancy, just a
couple of weeks. I like short,
self-contained projects. And the commute is nice,
too. I put my bike on
the 10:25 a.m. #5 bus just in front of our place
on Fremont Avenue. It
turns into the 54, I get off at the
junction after 40 minutes of reading Celine
(about the right dose
of his dense prose),
then it's a hair-raising, skull-rattling downhill
run on cracked and
bumpy streets to the waterfront. The tide was way
out, the
greens of exposed flat punctuated by colorful
specks of school
field
trippers. The salt air is so invigorating I slow
down to breathe all I
can, that same mix of energized and relaxed I felt
in Hawaii.
It's
all
about the ocean, I guess. It's positively
Victorian at the
edge--the hem
of a dress demurely pulled back just a touch to
reveal an ankle and the
people come running for a tantalizing look.
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