I may have posted this before (from roaming around the neighborhood), but the idea resonates with me still. This rush to "get back to normal" is bothersome.
I don't miss a lot of "normal." The rushing around, the angst, the dumb stuff. I hope we have the courage to reinvent. To center ourselves. To fulfill the vision.
There was a celebration locally yesterday but with heat records being broken and also a random chance to see family briefly after a year and a half apart, I wasn't able to go.
I did attend a virtual Pride trivia the other day with dear friends, also our first sans mask hangout since early 2020. We didn't win but we wore glitter shorts and drank tequila and laughed til we cried.
This week I've been on the struggle bus. Feeling alone, lonely, frustrated, despairing, exhausted. In addition to the internal pain, it's been hot. A friend canceled on hanging out, for the third time in a row. After a run, I inadvertently snapped off the shower diverter, couldn't fix it, stood sweaty and irritated in the tub and splashed water over myself, got out, and couldn't get one of my contacts out of my eye.
Others have it worse, I tell myself. But this isn't the Olympics. We're not competing.
It'll get better, I tell myself. I hope.
"In this house," declares the one, earnestly and declaratively anti-racist and pro-woman and pro-science. And the other endorses the well-funded, fairly racist and certainly classist recall effort against our socialist city council member, Kshama Sawant. I don't agree with everything she's done, but I appreciate her fire and the dedication. The fact that SPOG was asked to help out says pretty much all you need to know about the recallers.
This is a touchy subject, I know--I know!--but we need to talk about bikes on the sidewalk.
As an intentionally car-free person, I spend a good amount of time each day walking around town. It's how I get where I'm going, mostly, other than the very occasional bus ride. And let me tell you, the sidewalks in Seattle are crowded, and not just with other walkers.
The recent panini offered an almost welcome respite from the growing numbers of scooters and bikes and unicycles also using the sidewalk, and now that people are out and about again, it's frustrating. The pedestrian is the unit with the least amount of power--no vehicle, no protection, just legs and shoes. And it gets old, dodging and flinching and having to jump out of the way.
I hear you winding up to remind me of the RCW making it legal to cycle on the sidewalk and let me just stop you right there. I know. I KNOW. It's legal. Trust me. Every cyclist I speak to, quotes it, chapter and verse.
It doesn't mean you need to be nasty about it, though.
I'm writing all this because yesterday I had a scary encounter with a cyclist. I was walking on a quiet, misty morning near a park, lost in thought, and passed guys and a piece of heavy equipment working in the street. Suddenly I heard a bicycle bell ring loudly and insistently, right behind me. I turned and a woman on a cargo bike wheeled past, still dinging the bell.
"You're on the fucking sidewalk," I said. Meaning, slow down. Give me some room. I didn't yell. I just said it. I'm tired of bikes almost running me over.
She jerked to a halt directly in front of me and threw her bike down on the sidewalk and ran to confront me. She was wearing a mask but stood inches from my face, screaming about the RCW. "It's legal," she bleated. "Fuck you it's legal."
I moved to the right, and she moved to the right, coming even closer, still screaming. (Is RCW some kind of incantation?) I was scared, thinking she was about to hit me. I jumped into the street. "It might be legal but it doesn't mean you have to be a dick," I said. (No de-escalation points for me.)
She picked up her bike and I noticed then that she was wearing a badge and t-shirt bearing the name of a local food bank. As she got on and sped away, I stood in the street, watching her. "Food bank, nice," I called after her, and as she turned left at the corner, she looked back long enough to flip me off.
I walked on, heart pounding, hoping she wasn't waiting around the next corner. I thought a lot yesterday about calling the food bank. I don't mind the back and forth but I truly thought she was going to strike me. What good would it do to call? I don't know her name. I don't know why she exploded. Probably because other pedestrians have protested when she almost ran over them and then screamed at them.
I don't have an answer. All I have is this story. And a request: cyclists, please be nice. Other than walking in the street (highly not recommended), we pedestrians have no other place to go.
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| Crybaby Studios |
Now the city is denying permits for a Juneteenth celebration/CHOP remembrance and I can't say I'm sad about it. The way CHOP morphed into a souvenir-shilling block party still rankles. I still have nightmares about seeing my neighbor being beat in front of our building, hearing blasts of tear gas and grenades deep into the night, the burning of pepper spray in my sinuses, the wild frustration of watching squadrons of cops in riot gear parade around a neighborhood they so clearly scorn.
The cops fled. People died. The head cop and the mayor deleted their texts. It's still so messy and gross.
I walked by the park the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, when the George Floyd protests erupted. Omari Salisbury of Converge Media was setting up to broadcast a one year anniversary show. The park was otherwise quiet, just a few dog walkers, Dirty Dog not yet open for business.
I hope there is a way for us to remember the spirit of the protests, and rededicate ourselves to making positive change. I don't know that it will happen at Cal Anderson, or even on the hill. I just know it needs to continue to happen.
Sara Gran has written three books about Claire DeWitt, "world's greatest detective." Gran lets her protagonist be an asshole, get beat up, do drugs, drink too much, and most of all, be curious and reckless and sarcastic and feel too much. The plots are convoluted and yet always satisfying, because a detail mentioned early on will come back and manifest and grow later in the story. I read all three books quickly and sadly, because they're short and I didn't want any of them to end.
Here's a snippet from The Infinite Blacktop.
The other book I want to mention is Melanie Finn's The Hare. I won't even try to summarize the plot other than to say it's about how women do what women always do, which is cope. The protagonist starts out young and impressionable and the story follows her through a surprise pregnancy, abandonment, and pockets of love and violence.
I enjoy these writers, I envy their insight and their skill. They urge me on, to do better, work harder, feel more.
