My heart is a bouncy ball
I have an internal rythm.
Bounce bounce bounce
The basketball goes into the hoop growing up with white people, I was better at it.
Then introduced into the world, I wasn't.
Slowly and slowly get introduced to the world, the bounce
Bounce bounce bounce
Bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce bounce
27 ounces
I internal bouncing.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Writing reflections...
And anyway: what did any great writer do but write about what they experienced? In some way to shape or form writing what I experience and observe is all I can do. Some may find that constricting but I think it's liberating. It's awesome. Truth is stranger than fiction but fiction knows no boundary so one can easily turn a bad teacher in their life into fiction: the big, bad wolf or the snake on the trees, etc.
Pike Place reflections
Time passes funny here at work. See. That's such an odd sentence but there's no other way I can describe it. I get in a flow, feel sorta robotic sometimes but am never really bored because the influx of people and their natural color of skin,
Clothes, hair, or attitude excites and tickles me. It's so fun to fuck with people. In the best way possible. It's lovely just enjoying people's company and having people return for more. It's a fun gig. I hope I don't get tired of it but I fear I will. It's like Dostoevsky, though, right? One time he said to me: "human beings can get used to anything" and frankl later added ..."just don't ask us HOW." I'm not working at the holocaust so I imagine my process of HOW I get used to this part of my life will be a lot more humane than frankls. It's like I'm developing immediate, brief, pockets of friendship with these customers. Little blurbs or quotations of "hello's" and "goodbye's" or what have you. Ultimately, I'm a crook because I'm only being nice to them because I'm being paid, right? Or am I a good person. I don't think it really matters. I'm surrounded by so many judgemental people, at school, it seems. It's just the nature of art school I suppose: we critique each other often and always and it bleeds over into our social atmosphere and people think their perceptions of people are the golden truth but, in any event, that's totally just my perception. It's cool being at the market. It's a bevy of humanity. Like the pasta I sell: so many flavors. It's sunny on this break. A nice breeze. Sound of people chatting, a plane riding above me, crows flying, music faintly playing in four distant directions. Someone yelling "go to the noodle stand" gets me excited to meet them. The smell of ash, cigarettes, dingy, old but not sad. Weathered, used, antiqued.
Clothes, hair, or attitude excites and tickles me. It's so fun to fuck with people. In the best way possible. It's lovely just enjoying people's company and having people return for more. It's a fun gig. I hope I don't get tired of it but I fear I will. It's like Dostoevsky, though, right? One time he said to me: "human beings can get used to anything" and frankl later added ..."just don't ask us HOW." I'm not working at the holocaust so I imagine my process of HOW I get used to this part of my life will be a lot more humane than frankls. It's like I'm developing immediate, brief, pockets of friendship with these customers. Little blurbs or quotations of "hello's" and "goodbye's" or what have you. Ultimately, I'm a crook because I'm only being nice to them because I'm being paid, right? Or am I a good person. I don't think it really matters. I'm surrounded by so many judgemental people, at school, it seems. It's just the nature of art school I suppose: we critique each other often and always and it bleeds over into our social atmosphere and people think their perceptions of people are the golden truth but, in any event, that's totally just my perception. It's cool being at the market. It's a bevy of humanity. Like the pasta I sell: so many flavors. It's sunny on this break. A nice breeze. Sound of people chatting, a plane riding above me, crows flying, music faintly playing in four distant directions. Someone yelling "go to the noodle stand" gets me excited to meet them. The smell of ash, cigarettes, dingy, old but not sad. Weathered, used, antiqued.
Pike Place reflections 1
And the newcomer shows up and writes poetry about it. But that's exactly right, isn't it? Don't we always wish we could live in the first moment of things? That moment of first, blissful, mysterious arrival where everything is new and nothing is common?
In that vein, I write and offer up my observations, however random or clear about the pike place market...as a newcomer to the city of seattle and as a newcomer as an employee at one of the places where we yell and sell things at you. It's fun.
Here we are.
The smell of flowers molds into a confused smell that is both rank and curious. Walking along the market's edge, I enter one of the many fish market's next to the flowers: this is that odd combination of a smell that excites and repulses all at once.
The eclectic smattering of people never ceases to amaze me. Australians, Alaskans, Bulgarians, Japanese, and the people who don't understand enough English to understand the question: "where are you from?" What must their experience of this place or, any place in the states for that matter, be like?what do they see and how do they experience it?
Is this place just a mall that goes by a different name that is in a unique place? So instead of "Springfield mall" it's the beautifully alliterated "pike place market." It's consumerism all the same but if pike place is a mall then it makes me a lot less angry than normal malls. I attest that there is something magical about this place. Something in the air, for sure. A blind man would have a jubilant time in pike place because the smells alone would send him burrowing through different continents and traversing different areas of the world by only taking three steps to his left and taking a deep breath in.
Time to clock back in. More on the regulars next time.
In that vein, I write and offer up my observations, however random or clear about the pike place market...as a newcomer to the city of seattle and as a newcomer as an employee at one of the places where we yell and sell things at you. It's fun.
Here we are.
The smell of flowers molds into a confused smell that is both rank and curious. Walking along the market's edge, I enter one of the many fish market's next to the flowers: this is that odd combination of a smell that excites and repulses all at once.
The eclectic smattering of people never ceases to amaze me. Australians, Alaskans, Bulgarians, Japanese, and the people who don't understand enough English to understand the question: "where are you from?" What must their experience of this place or, any place in the states for that matter, be like?what do they see and how do they experience it?
Is this place just a mall that goes by a different name that is in a unique place? So instead of "Springfield mall" it's the beautifully alliterated "pike place market." It's consumerism all the same but if pike place is a mall then it makes me a lot less angry than normal malls. I attest that there is something magical about this place. Something in the air, for sure. A blind man would have a jubilant time in pike place because the smells alone would send him burrowing through different continents and traversing different areas of the world by only taking three steps to his left and taking a deep breath in.
Time to clock back in. More on the regulars next time.
Pike place reflections...
$10 bills are the most popular...or the least available. In short, we never have them. I see "Texas ranger's" hats..mariners must be playing em.
A couple from Texas told me they were on a tour of all 30 ball parks in the US. More and more I get in conversations with the customers. So many interesting people doing so many cool things though sometimes they don't think so but that's just because they are around themselves all the time. You can't escape yourself. I haven't decided if that's a good or a bad thing. Possibly, there is a third, undiscovered option.
Had a kebab for lunch. Pretty tasty.
A couple from Texas told me they were on a tour of all 30 ball parks in the US. More and more I get in conversations with the customers. So many interesting people doing so many cool things though sometimes they don't think so but that's just because they are around themselves all the time. You can't escape yourself. I haven't decided if that's a good or a bad thing. Possibly, there is a third, undiscovered option.
Had a kebab for lunch. Pretty tasty.
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