kind of blue.

October 9, 2011

I’m thinking maybe I should write more. Really. I got a degree in it after all… I haven’t got anything of interest to say, nothing has been notable in the last week or so; aside from the fact that rainy season has officially started. Perhaps I’ll talk about that:

Rainy season in the PNW lasts about ten months out of the year. (Save “Summer” which is usually mid-July through September.) Winters in P-Town are cold. The numbers may tell you otherwise; but the insufferably thick moisture that saturates the air is enough to chill out even the most uptight of dudes. Why am I telling you this? I dunno.

The other day I had the fleeting desire to paint. Before you assume that I’m being some pretentious a-hole who pretends to have talent let me clear the air by saying the following: A. Fuck you, and B. I’m terrible at it, so nyah. I had been on an extended gallivant, admiring the gloom and doom in the sky while chirping through most of the vintage stores in Southeast. (Village Merchants, WHERE YOU AT.) I passed up a perfectly tacky Mary-Beth Lacey mug in favor of a longer walk. I love when the skies grow more ominous. You can tell the rain is approaching, though you’re not exactly sure when it will hit. You continue to either dodge stray droplets, or embrace them along with the inevitability of an impending torrential downpour. That day, I was thankful for the plastic bag that housed my watercolor paper, and took part in the latter.

The first time I ended up at Hipster central, (AKA Southeast Grind) was after a long flight from New York. Fif insisted that I be kidnapped for the evening, and though my body was an exhausted lack of conversational ability, I obliged. Her and her boyfriend decided that we should all go to the beach that evening. Those plans were later scrapped.

After I’d finished walking from I’ve Been Framed, the rain had hit, I passed the “How’s it Oregooooin” sign which made me snicker, and I kept my pace dampening my jeans– every step closer to a warm cup of joe. It was awesome. Of the five people I saw out on my walk, not one of them had an umbrella, the residual splash of stagnant car water was met with nonchalance. I made it to Southeast Grind, had a cup of coffee, and partook in one of my favorite activities: the Miles Davis Sunday. Regardless of the day, Miles Davis Sunday’s are when you are free of physical obligation, it’s raining; and all you want to do is have some steamy java, put on Kind of Blue, and stare out the window. I’d been working on a convoluted piece of “art”, and it needed some TLC. Voila, Miles Davis.

I don’t even care if this counts as overstating it: when it rains, and you are inside watching drops cascade down the windows, and people don’t really give two shits that it’s raining, (unlike New York where I’m scared for my life because I’m eye level with pokey umbrella ends), it’s awesome. Not like, “I just watched a movie where a lot of shit blew up and then two unrealistically hot people did it” awesome, like “all is right with the world and fuck everything because I feel so good in my bones” awesome.

That’s what rainy season is to me.

Miles Davis Sundays for ten straight months.


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