night in my window
I feel, sometimes at night, like I am floating in the
sky. Technically, I suppose I am. I am on the fourth floor of a downtown
building. And while that may not be "floating," since I am pretty sure
there are big wall struts holding me up here, it is definitely elevated.
And when the fog comes in at night, I look out the windows and I am up
above the street, and buildings on either side have lights all shining
out their windows into the fog, and I can see the tops of trees just reaching
up. And everything feels not quite real, with the glamour of fog and city
lights all muted in a world that just floats.
I am in Belltown. It is an interesting neighborhood. Downtown. And I am
not sure where it got its name of Belltown. But here I am. During the
WTO riots, Belltown was part of the shut down zone. Police and city officials
and newscasters all pretended no one lived here and that the only people
having problems getting in and out of "the zone" -- they showed "the zone"
on TV all sketched out in yellow lines the color of the police tape they
use on TV detective shows to mark off homicides -- were people who had
to go to and from work. But people live here. A lot of people live here.
In tall apartment buildings that rise up above little shops on the first
floors of each building. I am on a corner, so I have windows looking out
all directions. On one side, I see the Space Needle, which when I first
moved here, I thought was very weird and ugly -- it looks pretty much
like a flying saucer that one day just got stuck on an overly tall pole
-- but which I got used to after a while until the skyline would not be
exactly right if it were gone. And if I go into the bedroom I can look
out at the Sound, all dark glittery water stretching west, and a barge
going by, far away and down below. And often at night there will be mist,
which they call rain here, but I have seen rain and this is mist. And
the mist makes all the building lights mystical and eerie, in the dark.
Romantic. And glamorous.
This is a beautiful city.
Downtown streets are lined with trees and most of the buildings are very
old, 1920's brick edifices rising side by side with a few mirrored skyscrapers
designed by men and sometimes women with interesting thoughts in their
heads they painted on the city skyline. It hasn't shaken apart in earthquakes
like San Francisco did, so all the old buildings are still here. And it
hasn't been paved over like Los Angeles has. Or overcrowded yet. It is
still a neighborhood city. With all its bricks intact. Which is a pretty
big accomplishment, perched on the Pacific Rim. And sometimes at night,
looking out at glamorous lights in mist, I feel like I am in the right
place. For a little while. Maybe.
That is unusual for a child of the road.
It still feels strange flying home from a trip, to here. When you come
home here, or at least when I come home here, it is like returning somewhere
that is worth returning too. And I am always startled by how -- for lack
of a better word -- pretty it is. And by the fact I live here. I come
in on my plane, all road weary and used to flying into overcrowded, overpaved,
overbuilt cities, and out the plane's cabin window the Seattle skyline
glitters at me, like neon lights out of a made up movie place. Some movie
place imagined by Tim Burton or Ridley Scott, all shadows and light. And
I catch my shuttle at the airport and ride through misty 1920's streets
lined with trees, to my apartment floating in the sky. And dump suitcases
on a carpet that has stayed surprisingly white despite overt attempts
by dogs to make it some less astounding color. And dodging tails that
wag with lethal force I open my blinds to look out at ghostly lights and
mist. And think, for a little while longer, I will stay here. And call
these floating lights home.
*originally
published on NiteTime.net
