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Tuesday
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 Between
Andrei Codrescu reading
at Elliott Bay Book
Company and
Mark
Robinson wailing at the
Crocodile
were several blocks of hard rain but when we left the Croc the skies had
cleared, not a bad night for a walk. We took one bus for several blocks and
rode a bad transfer for one stop, which left us on the wrong side of big
Queen Anne Hill.
The air was crisp and moon bright so we didn't mind wandering uncertainly
through deserted streets where brand new Saabs, Volvos, and Jaguars rested
for the night and the only sound was the spooky music of windchimes hung
on every house. TV towers at top flash warnings to low-flying planes and
slice the moon like a hardboiled egg with their steel struts. The street
running down to the drawbridge is so straight and steep that you have to
practically gallop to go down it (unless you take the stairs, which we didn't
notice until bottom was reached). Halfway down we paused to watch swift clouds
overtake the moon which now wore a golden halo behind a white veil. Darker
clouds swept in underneath but the moon shone through the seemingly substantial
masses. We decided to camp out in our new empty apartment upstairs: white
walls, beige carpet, and a sheet in the middle of it--red flannel rectangle,
minimalist
Christo on
a much smaller scale. A single candle cast the cat's shadow huge against
unadorned walls. New surroundings had Lulu spooked
and her loud meowing was outdone only by the howling of a sudden big wind
which bent the pinetreetop outside our west window parallel to the ground.
Next morning we found balcony rails scattered below like so much kindling
but if we'd lost power in the night we never noticed it. |
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