September 2008 Archives

[self-portrait, from the fort]

I am a photographer.

I have a watermark.

Kristin is so far way beyond any comprehendable awesomeness, it's not even funny. She left me a love note with hands, and a half-dozen buttons that say "New Girl" on them. You know, so I remember to be kind to myself.

OMG.

Go look at the Elliott Brood set that's up on flickr. Now, keep in mind - the only light, most times, was from those Christmas lights on the drum kit, and the guys never stopped moving. And those are the kinds of shots I got.

No, I did not use the flash in all but two of those. Yes, I am telling the truth.

The Nikon is amazing. I am awesome. And I'm playing with the big kids now. Except I think I just wet my pants.

xx
VvB

isn't that a nice thought? to wake up, and to shine. rising, and all shiny...

I am shiny, but I've seen a murder today. as I was swimming about bicycles on my way over here, I realized that if I looked the way I felt, I would be covered in blood, and there would be a sizable machete lodged in my skull. in the somewhat immortal words of angela chase, and it's not exact, "if we all just did what we felt / said what we were thinking, the world would grind to a halt."

it would have found me walking into caffe vita this morning in those bloody clothes - people would have stopped me long before I made it here though, to make sure I was okay. they'd think it was a halloween costume at first, until they realized they could see pieces of my head, and they'd sit me down and call an ambulance. there would be no transatlanticism on my drive, no golden sunlight glinting off of hard-working cranes on my way down the hill, no moments paused in front of the newspaper box to read another story about the economy. no. the world would would have, in fact, ground to a halt.

there's no editing here. I'm taking the link to this off my myspace, I doubt faraway people take the time to bookmark it besides like, gale, or kimmy, or laura... I woke up this morning to the phone ringing from a call from raf. actually, I woke up to a picture of him and his new girlfriend on myspace, after which I promptly texted him to tell him I was shutting off the cellphone if we didn't take care of it today - I thought I transferred it to him a while ago, but the liability isn't all out of my name, and it's late, and I want nothing else to do with it, or him, or anything. I'm tired of picking it back up. I want to start to heal. and the scab keeps getting torn off, and I'm tired of all the blood... I'm so tired. I'd rather have a scar. so he calls, we make a plan for 1:00 my time (because we have to do a conference call to take care of it with the people at t-mobile) and then a discussion starts about bills. I have them. he hasn't paid any. that's the backdrop. the reality is, I was stupid enough to whip out my credit card on too many occasions, and I've put myself here, asking him to help pay off which is rightly part his. and I know, I think I'd like to know, if he had some money that he'd cover what he could, but I think he's been having some health problems and work was inconsistent for a while - point being, I'd like for him to take responsibility, and I know things have been a little rough - but you know what? things are rough. life is rough. every day leaves a scar, as rayanne says, life leaves a scar. so let's stop making empty promises and saying we're gonna and we will and we were about to - and let's just do it.

then the machete split my face in half.

apparently, since he doesn't have the ring, he doesn't feel the need to pay for it. and as he started to explain this to me, and I can tell when they're other people's lines with him, because they're too awkward and polished, and we're all so fucking transparent even thought we think we aren't - I hung up. I had to make it stop. in that moment, I understood my drunk aunt hanging up on me when I started talking to her about stealing my mom's jewelry when she was in hospice. I just couldn't hear it, not a second, I felt the wind up and the release, and I just shut the phone.

I sat there for a second.

I called back, and proceeded to make the analogy to him that if we went into some form of a joint venture that didn't work out, let's say, that we bought a car, and that car blew up and spewed fluid all out into the road, and died - that just because the car was sitting on my front lawn instead of his didn't mean that I should be the one to pay for it. I am, in fact, the asshole that gave him use of my credit, because I was trying to help his credit, and I accept full, embarrassing, shameful responsibility for that - but I feel that it's our endeavor, and our misfortune, and now our responsibility to cover.

except all of our debt is in my name. because I'm an asshole, and there's a big learning curve with this stuff, and now - well, I can finally say the lesson has been re-presented to me sufficiently, and that I don't ever have to do that again. even though he agreed to split the debts - including aforementioned ring - although I'll believe that when the checks start showing up.

and I want to smack him, and the people that are not saying anything about him dating. I want to call up his girlfriend and tell her about the conversation we had last week, where I was standing in front of all the shoe and boot polish at qfc, needing to call my father, reaching for my phone, realizing I couldn't, and bursting into tears, and dialing him before I could think twice about it for help. and I want to say awful, awful things, to tell her about how he said she's not me, and how she could never take my place, and how he shit on it and joked about it and how I sat there and said look, this girl is a hot second from changing her status to "in a relationship" and if you're not looking to replay the same fucking tape you've played with women since the day your mother kicked you out, you'd better pay attention - that, and the fact that this chick drinks, and how there's been times when you tasted alcohol on her lips (there's a whole chapter in the book) and how we just can't afford to fuck around with all of that.

I will take space to remit that there is no inherent danger in posting all of this on my blog, because she doesn't know where it is, nor do her friends, and besides, I think the title of it might be too much for her to spell correctly without giving up before she found the page.

so maybe I had to see a murder to let it die. like we need the cold and the rain to appreciate the sun, so that the sun doesn't become a bother. we need hurt and confusion to be aware and in touch with being quiet and free. we need to crawl before walking, and walk before running, and be engaged to people who fuck girls who came to your going away party ten minutes after your taillights faded out on the highway entrance on willow street and then jump into relationships while the body is still warm to the touch to find out how much better off we are alone, to see just how tangled up we were, to learn what we do not want by an abundance of just that - I have to be lodged under a tire to know I can get up and walk away.

I think this morning was the Universe kicking me out of my nest. and I'm totally okay with it. it doesn't matter if I'm okay with it or not, or if I'm ready for it or not, because it's happening. anger and hurt have shifted to crying, to breaking open, another layer I knew I needed to shed but I wasn't sure I had.

he is no longer my job, responsibility, or anything even vaguely like any of those words. the only person I have room to dedicate that much love, care, and work to is me. Me. nobody is going to do this for me. I mean, well, kristin and gloria help out A Lot, but like I stated in an earlier entry - the blind guy has to have the balls to leave his house.

hold on, kids. the storm is coming. I've got to buy myself some flowers. stat.
vvb

right. so much to say, so little I can filter through to all of you... it's enough to make you crap right in your pants. I promise. (the ______ _____ thing, that is). you're just going to have to take my word for it.

so here we are, wrapping up another weekend, starting up another work week. I'm off the clock an hour early today because we had to set up gift bags for tenants at one of the buildings that BioMed owns at like, 6:30 this morning. I was on time. my coworker was not. and I get all anxiety-ridden when I have to be up for something like that, to the point where if I'm not doing it regularly, I can't sleep. I wake up and wake up and wake up, afraid I'm going to sleep too late, constantly checking my clock to see what time it is, and how much time I have left to sleep. it sucks. I hate it. I'm hoping I'll learn to adjust, because I want to shift to earlier days. I want to write, and be well read, so I have to make the time to write, and read. period. funny how it's not rocket science like that.

so, I'm wondering if I can docu-drama the weekend in twelve minutes, before I leave for the day. let's give it a shot.

the weather was stupid and we spent a big chunk of sunday out in the driveway - I cleaned my car, kristin shone-d up the frankenstella. she's gorgeous. photoessay to follow. speaking of photoessays - it's on my list. and in being an item on a list, I have to take the time and space here to talk about Planning and I have been introduced to the plentiful bounty of organization that one yields from Making Multiple Lists. Plans. there's the big list, and then all the little lists to back it up, complete with timeframes and "items needed" (because sometimes you need things to do the things on your list) and I swear, I suddenly became The Second Most Efficient Person In America. I knew where I was going, in what order, I roughed out how long it was all going to take, and I was early for the in-studio. early! me! I had time to collect myself and everything. and as if that wasn't good enough - being early for an in-studio, and getting to do an in-studio, btw, with tea for julie, they seem to be the mighty purple of portland - I got so much shit done. so much! I did spend longer than I would have liked in fred meyer feeling like an r-tard, like I had lost all my abilities and skills on a bunch of basic levels, but I'm being kind to myself and I won't take the time and space to remit that any further. I'm new here. it takes me a while to sort through the aisles, to leave the house - I've been informed that I've just had Major (frothy) Emotional Upheavals, a series of them even, and that eight weeks is not long enough to implement systems or to be a pinnacle of mental health - and that I've got to go easy on me. so, fred meyer took forever, but I Did It All By Myself (I only had to call KRDO 2 or 3 times), and I even got Car Related Items.

the car. back to sunday. I fixed my car. not really, but kind of, but still - more car fixing than I've ever done alone before. I added coolant, and windshield (!!!) washer fluid, and I changed my wipers. that was the big part, that constitutes being able to call it car-fixing. wipers take a little figuring out, a snap, a lock, which way they bend, which way they don't, how to figure out which ones to put on, and what have you. I took mine into fred meyer (back to saturday) and when I got it off of my car in the parking lot, all with the manual on the hood, I actually looked around to see if anyone saw me. I was so fucking proud of myself. my hands got all dirty. it was tres exciting, and I'm not being facetious. and then the actual install (sunday again) was quite rewarding. a mostly clean car (sans vacuum, because there were too many people out cleaning their porsches with diapers at the car wash) and blades I put on All By Myself = me having a triumphant afternoon. after crying with gloria, and pumpkin creamered coffee... there was abundant sunshine on our Officially Fake Summertime day, and lots of cherry diet coke, and more lists, and even a sweet, armor-all-ed seat scooter ride. the perpetual boob jam. you should see her, all shiny and glossy like that - like I said, I've got pictures. they're coming.

they're like, on the list. of things to do. but we've got some Fake Summertime left still it seemed, and we're taking all that we can get. they'll be time enough for indoor activities once the rain starts.

I've got to speak tonight (sixty seconds left on the work timer) and I'm a little nervous. then I remember that it's not about me, that I serve as more of a channel in these instances, and then all the pressure is off. I have to learn that over and over, because I forget it repeatedly. and so other things I learned, besides that, and the lists: that doing things instead of asking a boy for help doing them is empowering, even though I think the thing I want is help from a boy, I actually don't; that I make a brilliant apple crisp (well, the apples make it brilliant, so I make a good apple crisp, and a brilliant Honeycrisp Apple Apple crisp, but I'd imagine it would still be good with inferior fruit, what with all the love and slicing); that I have easily identifiable and treatable broken thought patterns - such a relief, because I tend to lean towards unidentifiable panic more often than not; that my sponsor is awesomer every time I hang out with her (and she says funny, crazy things that are so good I have to leave blanks in so I can keep her under wraps); and not to state the obvious repeatedly, but that kristin is the greatest gal I could ever hope to know - OH - and that speaking of that, how could I forget? sunday night. sharpies. the great indie rock pilgrimage of 2008... turns out that ms. d.'s activspace was less than two blocks from the hall of justice. that's a whole separate entry. about watching dw,sc and hailing the power of the internet into the living room and realizing the hall of justice was in wicked close proximity to said space, and riding out on the scooter, and licking doorknobs, and seeing that it was - is - in fact, across the street. they were like, right there. I pulled a little scrap of paper out of the mailbox. you could see "hall" still in the faded sharpie. we have video forthcoming.

you know. it's on the list. I'll get to it shortly.

thirteen minutes, start to finish, thoughts out on the blog like my words spilled out onto the page this morning, so I can clean out the files in my head and make room for all the new things this week holds... phew. fuck editing. I don't have to be brilliant and a word besides epic every day - I just need to fucking write. and as I write more in my notebook, I can clear out that stuff too, and pretty soon every day will be a clean, mostly blank canvas.

oh. and we took polaroids. but I'll save that for posting the movie. I may have to make use of the scanner here tomorrow. scanner vigilantes. new seattle ambassadors.

hall of justice.

licking.

right.

gotta run. the sun's out still.

drive well,
vvb

which is like, my new phrase. sunsets are epic and sweeping. bands, frozen moments in real time, snapshots - epic and sweeping. moments in songs. everything. it's my new favorite word. kristin's getting sick of it. but so many things are epic, you know? all vast and barely comprehendable.

I just got back from seeing phantom of the opera at the paramount, and I'm listening to eric's old Officially Emo Mix from a few years ago (before the emo kids knew they were emo, and the ones that did were indie before everyone went indie, eric was one of those guys) to kind of counteract the night. counterbalance. something. but yeah - that, my friends, was epic. the fucking bustles on the dresses were epic. I was (am) so wide open, you know, so every prolonged note, every angst-ridden moment, every sweeping gesture just pulled my heart right out of my chest. the phantom flung off his cape with a flourish, and it pulled me up straighter in my seat. christine hit the high notes, and my tears fell on cue. gloria thought it was great, and proceeded to have a conversation with me at intermission about how good it was that I felt everything, that I was into everything, all wide-eyed and childlike. it's funny, just meeting her and all, and how she holds the mirror up to me and is like, you have an honest joy for living. you don't take these experiences for granted. you're so awake to all of it, and I felt all shiny and glossy and loved. and I'm like, wow. you're talking about me. and she's like, maybe this is just who you are, victoria. and it hung in the air all heavy and good, like the velvet curtains all around, the kind with the smooth gold twisted rope to hold them back when they need holding back. I am not jaded. I am more than two percent magic, and so are you. so is everything.

the part came where the phantom takes christine in the boat for the first time, and the dry ice poured out perfectly on cue, spilling over the edge of the stage into the orchestra pit, and gloria goes, "I love dry ice." and I go, "it's not dry ice, gloria, it's magic." we just had had a conversation before that part about how you watch the show from the side and you see guitar players yelling to each other in the middle of a particularly - well, seemingly epic moment, and it becomes mechanical. the thrill evaporates just a smidge. and she proceeded to relate a story about one of her favorite things that had been bled of so much magic (and I really, really wish I could talk about it like I want to talk about the zen blizzards) and I talked about okkervil river and how it became a little less magic, and then in the same breath, I could be front row for phantom of the opera or front row for elliott brood at the tractor, and they both take my breath away just the same. I guess the thing that really gets to me is heart. when cheryl said that nick cave, after being a total fucking dick to her on the air, that it was worth it for those four songs - well, I didn't believe her. but I suppose dick and all, he must have heart. he had to have. at least for his own craft, if for nothing. I suppose in all cases it goes a long way.

I am so fucking tired. I want to get up early tomorrow and write but this edge of being sick is kicking the shit out of me. not to be confused with getting my socks knocked off every couple of days in the good way. it's just taking away that little extra thing that will get me up to go to caffe vita, or to even consider the gym before work - I was just falling into it and then the sick came. and now I just sleep like a rock, body all under repair - it's got to pass soon enough though. lots of handwashing. lots of airborne.

on that note, it's probably time for bed. I don't feel like expending the time or the energy to talk about how the romantic parts on the rooftop made me sad for raf and everything that got broken, and how when we watched it on broadway for my 30th birthday that I really thought we might be alright somehow. because it's time for all of that to be put to bed, eight weeks in seattle, probably about twelve out of the relationship. I will expend the time and energy to note how nice I looked tonight all dressed up, black pants and black collared tunic shirt - I even did my hair a little - because it's nice to put your best dressed self out there sometimes. it makes me want to do it every day, but then every day would be like, prom every day, and then it wouldn't be prom. night. at hater high.

yeah.

and because it's about to fade out into the back of whatever compartment it's in in my brain, elliott brood was fucking awesome, I can't stop talking about them, and I can't stop showing people the pictures. that's on the list for the weekend, with paying bills, post office, notarize the timeshare stuff, and probably meet gloria for coffee on sunday. it's hard to come up with ways your life is unmanageable when so much shit is so awesome.

epic. epic polaroids. I wonder if there could be such a thing. I think there can be.

it's Ben Gibbard Night tomorrow, complete with sushi and Fun With Sharpies. it's a Welcome Fall Fest. tour. crunchy foliage. apples. I left a bright red leaf on the table for kristin - I hope it's still bursting with color in the morning.

all reeling from the glitter and the bustles, the heartache and the masquerade -
VEvB

that was a stupid good show. for those of you who are tuning in, it's 2 a.m., and I just got back from elliott brood.

it was so good, like, you're kicking yourself for not going good, and yes I know you have work, and you're tired, and nobody wants to come off The Hill on a tuesday night for the headliner (that didn't even start until almost 11:30).

so good like when they get more famous, I'll be able to say I saw them from the tractor good. and they will get more famous. they're about to burst at the seams.

good like... the only thing I've seen since I've been here that's better was death cab, I mean, because really, come on. you can't trump that. but even besides that, I've seen a stupid amount of sick shows since I got here, including but not limited to a whole bunch of KEXP in-studios (plus the ones at bumbershoot) and I'm telling you - you have got to go see this band. now. I wouldn't lie to you.

and the pictures... Fuck. I can't even start talking about how good the camera is, because we'll be here all night, and I've got about 5 hours of sleep window. I'll have to report back tomorrow.

with a flash that made her look so professional that the bands asked her (oh yes) who she was,
VVB - with a big, well focused, appropriately-lit flourish.

oh my goodness. really. I am, in fact, a photographer.

I know you (all four of you) must be very bored by my self-contemplative states, wherein I sit and have conversations in my head that I type, about being good enough, not good enough, varying levels of awareness and evaluation - and I know that while I do address you directly sometimes, I am here for me. every post has these little cathartic effects. it's perfect. and tonight, the thing happened with the flash, and I have permission to suck, and I feel *so* much better about myself. seriously.

kristin is part cat, part magic, fueled by varying flavors of diet coke. well, a bunch of other stuff too. but for the purposes of this post, let's focus on the magic part (I'm hoping too that if I keep linking to her blog, that in her abundant and copius free time, she will update). so, as you've been reading, I pick the camera back up, and I suck. everything sucks. my pictures suck. editing in iPhoto is like, practically illegal. but I push, and pull, and make okkervil river look okay, and I can still frame, and I still have impeccable timing, and I find myself not sucking but just limited by my tools. like when I was taking pictures with the olympus and it came time to get a new camera, because It Was Time. because I was better than my camera would let me be. and I posted shitty, blurry pictures, because I had to, because in them I could see all these amazing brilliant moments of the show, and I wanted to share them, even though they were fuzzy. and so came the canon, and the ensuing shots, and I stood up tall and used the manual settings and rocked out with my cupcakes out. and It Was Good.

cut to seattle, suddenly in the midst of in-studios and gigs and backstage with quasi-famous bands, and I'm falling off the bike. I'm back to suck. and I can't blame it on anything other than being rusty, and I resign myself to the fact that I'm just going to have to suck for a while, and I'm okay with it. because I still like, know how to ride the bike and everything, but like one of my old bosses said - you've got to get the rust out. and it's okay. and so I read some articles and promise myself the canon class at the experimental college and so forth. if you're here, you've been reading, and you know the course. and all the while, I keep taking pictures, pictures edited in iPhoto that are good enough to size 600 by something and throw up on flickr and the KEXP site.

then kristin brought up the nikon again. the nikon d80, the droolworthy, spongeworthy, deliciously abundant, wider range of all things the canon can do nikon d80. I remember hating her a little bit when she bought it. but it passed. and I forgave her for being so awesome, because I get sad when other people are awesome sometimes because I feel less awesome, but other people's awesomeness gives me something to aspire to. identify, don't compare. pictures of lions taped to bathroom mirrors. you know. I need her to be awesome, just like my other teachers. and so anyway - she brings up the nikon, and hesitates, and it was funny, because I thought she was going to say something mean - and instead, she said two perfectly... perfect things.

one being that me not using the nikon was the equivalent of me continuing to turn down the porsche in favor of my ford taurus. my dependable, reliable, working ford taurus. and kristin has come by at varying points since my arrival in seattle and said, "here. take the porsche." and I have responded with, "no, it's okay. I like, put new tires on the ford. see? it's great!" and she goes, "no, really. you should take the porsche." it's almost like she was saying, "take the _________." like, I knew she was offering something better, but I had guilt, and I was shoulding on myself, and - I just didn't pull the trigger.

I am here to report that I have pulled said trigger, and brought along my polaroid to throw in the glove compartment, and It Is Good.

the other thing (and this is the magic part), two, part of her having me use the nikon is - get this - it gives me an excuse to be bad. right? right??!!!?!?! come on! who gets that, and puts it all together, and translates it into a working real-time scenario? SHE DOES! and I am like, totally fucking floored. pritzkered. IT'S GENIUS! (I am now so excited, past psyched at times, that I have to go from !!!!!!!! to !!!!!?!?!?!????!!! TO CAPITAL LETTERS. omg. OMG. OMFG. so, for some reason, my head decides to register that, accept it, love it, work it, own it - and she gets out the nikon. and I get out my old detachable flash she sent me.

and now - I took a bunch of test shots this afternoon, and Oh My God is it good. it's like, real photographer good. like, jim beckman is going to want me to shoot the famous people good. between that, and the fact that her (don't make fun of me here, kids) setting that mine only ranges from -2 to 2 on goes down to like, -5 or something - all I know is that motherfucker can go real fast and get good shit with very little light and a not-totally still subject. and, we've graduated to shooting in raw.

as I saw on a license plate frame today (edited for personally appropriate consumption), "if you're headed in the wrong direction, the Universe allows U-turns."

here I come, kids. I'm the new girl. and I've got a fresh book of matches.

sick, but going out anyways because they're canadian,
VVB

hey, fall.

welcome.

from what I've been told 'round these parts, I'll be missing you... make sure you're all bursting and blissful, k? we'll be making lots of things out of pumpkins and apples in your honor. you know, spicy. but in the good way.

kiss kiss,
the new seattle ambassadors

I can has Christmas lights. The ones up top are lavender, the ones on the bottom are blue (I couldn't decide, Kristin's input made the final call on which color went where). Sometimes I get into those decision comas, where I can't pick out pasta even. It gets bad. It used to be like, all the time. But it's getting better now. I mostly only notice it when I have bad pms - I can barely get dressed. And if all my clothes are clean - forget about it. I am frequently overwhelmed into a state of paralysis.

Continually eats cheese.

I am really starting to get a solid view of life from the Other Side. The non-insane, mostly calm a lot of times, "do you want to call me back because it seems like you are having a conversation with someone else" side. I talked to a couple of people back East, back home I guess is what I'm supposed to say there, and I just - I didn't realize how much voluntary insanity I had allowed to pervade my life until I backed away from it. And it wasn't so much a backing as a tearing away, a ripping apart - Kristin asked me the other day about why I came here, or when I knew, or how I decided - and the part I forgot to tell her about was the part about how the boards starting appearing under my feet, through no will of my own. All signs point to Seattle. Like in the Gatorade(tm) commercial, where the guy is like, going down the street with his basketball or whatever, and the floor just kept popping up under his feet wherever he stepped. It was something I had thought about and knew for so long, and just couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger on. I knew it feeling like I was driving in circles around the state, and I knew it was real the night Kier asked me about Raf and I managed to choke out how it wasn't working, and how I started to cry. It was a Thursday. I had looked at maps and plans and wondered for so long, searching distances and then clearing the history off the computer, like trying on a fitted dress after you lose weight and then hanging it back up in the closet because you're terrified to leave the house looking good, because you don't know what it means or what it will require of you or if you're ready to commit to not clinging to all of your old bullshit yet. I'd do it and it felt like stealing, only I knew I wasn't doing anything wrong. But that night, at Cold Spring Street, talking to Kier... cripes. The words just fell out of my mouth. And the next night was the night with the baking, talking to Kristin on the phone, and it had all been happening already, and I knew. I can look back in my writing now, and my lack of - and it's clear as day.

Now, I sit here, under these lavender lights, telling a story, thinking about those mornings in Starbucks where I wrote for hours about how everything was fine and talking about all those ways everything was great and convincing myself - trying to convince myself - of so much, and... leaving, and feeling partially cleansed from the routine of it and feeling good for having written, but also on some level feeling like I had gone into the bathroom to shit and sat there for two hours with nothing happening, and eventually giving up and leaving for work. I hate to make that analogy, but it's true.

Today, I got out of bed, totally excited. I had not a single thing planned, because it's Sunday, and I knew that I've been holding back the beginnings of this cold, and I knew I'd probably do my ironing, and get to the store - but that was it. No show. No massive undertaking. Ironing. In the living room. In Seattle. Today I did iron, and organized some stuff (because it's like, impossible not to get my shit together on some level living with Kristin - I mean, it would be like living with Martha Stewart and not making your bed, only good, and more than just making the bed I mean) and we like, went to Goodwill and Fred Meyer, and toasted coffeecups in the car, and cracked up about everything, and then Kristin broke her toe (almost) from dropping a giant glass bottle of olive oil on it, and then there was some reheated spaghetti and a few episodes of MSCL. My point is, long story short (I know, I know - too late) that (and I will use it until it is used up) there wasn't anything epic happening today. And I woke up, too late, stretching, and grinning that I was in Seattle and about to get up, on a Sunday. To iron, and Have Coffee. Oh, and I had to make sure I balanced out the last few days of purchases in my checkbook. And make a list.

Right.

My boss asked me Friday what I had planned, and I talked to her about resting up after that night's show because October was right around the corner, and there would be like, so many good bands to go see, that I'd be wiped out - you know, so I was taking advantage of a weekend with nothing on the docket. As it turns out, this week I have to chair tomorrow, Elliott Brood at the Tractor on Tuesday, chair (just a one-time "lead" they call it here) on Wednesday (after my tattoo consultation) and then Gloria and I are going to Phantom of the Opera on Thursday. So I could give a shit if anything good was even happening this weekend - but there is! The Rockabilly Ball is Thursday - Friday - Saturday, and I think the vintage car goodness is Saturday during the day - much photo opportunities and rockabilly boys will abound. And then next Friday is John In The Morning At Night, with Two Gallants and Head Like a Kite and Harvey Danger. Phew.

I will take a moment here to discuss, or at least devote a sentence to, being bit loudly and completely by the Rockabilly Boy Bug. It started the weekend I got here, at the market, with the guy pushing the trash cans, and last week the other guy going by in the old school car - Jesus Fucking Christ. Sorry. But there are no other words. All like, hot young Elvis, only with full sleeves, and Doc Martens, like, James Dean all turned up and modernized. It's stupid. They stop me in my tracks. And I've never like, talked to one of them, or anything - but they're all just gorgeous. I love people who have found their something. Besides rockabilly, too, but I'll fucking take it any day of the week with these guys.

So, yeah. So I might like, go to the car show or something. And just like, be, where they might be, because, you know, it's like, cool to go look at old cars in the rain on a Saturday. Truly.

I think I'm going to end it there, and take these snapshots with me to bed. Under the Christmas lights. In the fort. In Seattle. Psyched, on a Sunday, over nothing much at all.

XX
vvb

I do suck at photoshop. but as I've been told, it's only 2% magic - the rest is a learned skill. and I'm like, 10% magic. so, yeah. I'm like, way ahead of the curve already, and I'm barely getting started.

meat stick.

xx
vvb

I have editing software. AND I'M TOTALLY AWESOME.

We will now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

xx
vvb

I'm not.

vvb

like one-line, strange subject emails. anyways. off to the station to shoot (!!!) and a new header. because these are, in fact, my shoes.

xx
vvb

...and I take good pictures. Great pictures.

Really.

Swear.

Love ya. Mean it.
vvb

I will take time here again to link to the national's web page, but since it generates random images and notes, there's no guarantee it will tell you and show you what it does me.

a few things I've learned today:

from kristin, on me crying last night over being a lousy photographer all of a sudden: don't forget it's not a judgment on your personality, intelligence or talent, it's a learned skill. fuck, I needed that this morning. I transfered all 788 - no, that is not a typo - all seven hundred and eighty eight photos from both okkervil river shows, and my settings were wrong. off. terrible. and between that, and missing my parents, and forgetting to wash my sheets - well, I was just done for. all of a sudden, I was an awful person, with no skills or talents, and that kristin and everyone at the station and everyone I know is only nice to me and compliments me because they're being polite. and my pictures suck. and I suck. and I'm a charity case, and I'm going to die (eventually), old and alone, surrounded by my forty four cats.

I have to take a moment here to re-state how much I love the decemberists, and how annoyed I am at how freaking expensive the tickets are. grrr. I can hear colin meloy all singing out the side of his mouth on the radio right now, and I lament. greatly.

then I learned that I'm having PMS. I had it right before I got here, so I know every month around the anniversary of my arrival, well, it's also an anniversary of other proportions. so I got to lean on that, which made everything, while still real, less exaggerated.

then I went online and learned a low-light shooting formula from this guy, on his blog. bizarre, the amount of random information that comes up when you search for some technical information and then you throw in "gig" or "music" to the mix. so, what he said was to go aperture priority, push it as low as you can, stay wide angle on your shots, since you're close enough most times if that's the kind of shit you're shooting, and then you can stay on a lower film speed. light adjustment, if necessary, can be addresses from holding down your Av button and shifting from -2 to 2 on that little ruler scale.

now, I may not know exactly what all of that means, but I get it enough, and made it work enough taking pictures of my boot moving under my desk in the dark to know that I have a starting formula, at the very least. and between that, and reminding myself to register for the UW all day sunday canon class for $82.00, I think I've got a start well back on the road to being Good Enough. better than that, actually. I will be Awesome. like kristin when she's stumped on something really hard, and she's trained herself to get excited from how good it's going to be when she figures it out - I am so excited. I am so awesome. I am really, really excited and awesome.

the new math is, in fact, treason.

other things I learned today:

* that airborne does seem to be having some helpful effects at staving (sp?) off my pending sickness.

* that another way to describe your lactose intolerance is to refer to yourself as a "lactard", or, in our case, a "lactzker" I suppose, although it doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

*that my boots look a lot better / shinier / brighter after applying some saddle soap to them (hey, it's only been a few years, and how was I supposed to know???)

and to wrap on the photo stuff:

*when all else fails, make sure you use your flash on a few shots and then you can always deliver some satisfactory black-and-whites. just in case.

it's noon already. shit. I need more coffee.

xx
vvb

would you believe me if I told you I had no idea?

trip the light fantastic

Dance, as in "Let's go out tonight and trip the light fantastic." This expression was originated by John Milton in L'Allegro (1632): "Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastick toe." The idiom uses trip in the sense of "a light, tripping step," and although fantastick was never the name of any particular dance, it survived and was given revived currency in James W. Blake's immensely popular song, "The Sidewalks of New York" (1894).

I'd heard the phrase before, and changed the blog one night after coming home from the iron horse, having seen it scrawled on the paper towel dispenser in sharpie in the women's room. I think I have the picture somewhere, on an angle, written lengthwise across the front of the beige, aging wall fixture in-between the stickers and the dirt.

:*
vvb

but still.

this guy was taping right in front of my face. when he backs up a little, and mr. gibbard is on the left hand side of the screen, that's exactly the view from where I was standing.

two separate little one-minute moments of what may have been up in the top several hours of my life. ever. in seattle. that week.

!!!
VVB

...says a lot of funny things. only sometimes we'll say things and mean them, and sometimes it will be like, serious, but then be funny still.

but they're dead serious.

like the new sentence up in the browser window header thing.

refresh if you feel the need.

xx

right. I've gotten through my whole cup of coffee - my second, which reads as: my second quad, mind you - and it's been dripping on me the entire time, and I didn't notice. mostly because my olive colored (!!!) skirt has been hiding the damage, and I thought it was just water from the outside, from washing it before I used it. awesome. this is somehow akin to waking up in the middle of drinking with a steady, dotted line of wine stain down the middle of my shirt, looking down, and wondering who had had the gall to spill wine on me and not tell me.

hi.

last night was most excellent. I kind of feel like william miller right now, all about to tell the truth, but that's okay - and besides, this isn't rolling stone, so... yeah. anyways. I got to the showbox last night, after loops and loops and loops of blocks I would up finding parking at the bottom of seneca, so like, a couple of blocks at best - sweet. and when I went in, just like I was reading about back on my blog from going to see the wrens at wesleyan, those magical words got to fall from my lips and pile up all pretty on the counter in front of the girl with the Clipboard:

Hi. I'm on the guest list for Okkervil River.

and not only was I on said list, I had a pass. a photo pass. a sticky one I got to adhere to my clothing, all gawking at myself in the women's room mirror (hopes pinned to poses) and I wandered around the venue for a little, just kind of sitting in it. grinning. I texted patrick, you know, 'cause I like, have his number and stuff. they had said only do shots for the first three songs, so I wanted to make sure that was legit, where I could go, what I could do - about twenty minutes later there was a hand on my back. you made it, he said, or something, and I was like, cripes this guy is tall, which I think was my response. I'm such a dork. so I shifted into Band Photographess mode, wherein I explain the thing about the three songs, how the security won't let me go side-stage, and how he would like me to adjust - and this guy, who has gone from the Hottest Band Guy In America to like, the Nicest Band Guy In America (like, Ever, not kidding) spends the next twenty minutes talking to the security chick, bringing me backstage, showing me where I can put my bag down, and I'm hesitating at the doorway to the Back Room of the Back Stage Area, not quite sure my legs are going to keep working. and in this moment, it's me and him, and he's just so tuned in to my debilitated state - I mean, I'm totally derailed from the whole thing, as you can well imagine - and he takes me by the shoulders and looks me in the eye and tells me it's going to be alright. cut to me stashing my stuff. in the green room, this Back Room. Back Stage. cut to me getting stripped of my photo pass and being handed an All Access / PHOTO pass. I look at her (the security chick) and then back at patrick.

I ask him what this means.

he says it means I can do anything.

I put one hand on his arm, like kristin and I do, the Purposeful Touch, laughing to myself. I think I managed to say "yes" or "okay" out loud. I proceed to Set Up, taking test shots of sea wolf (awesome, btw, you know them, old gypsy woman said to me-e-e-e, you're a wolf, boy, get out of this town) and hanging out side stage, waiting for the set.

I took about 400 pictures. literally. I had 600 between - have 600, sorry - the triple door and the showbox. and I've got to get them off the camera tonight, because I've got to shoot ra ra riot for my lunchbreak tomorrow, and then clean that out so I can get some at the national too, but that I figure might just be viewer friendly.

I forsee myself having to upgrade my flickr account sooner than later, kids. really.

so, the part I feel bad about, would I have not noticed had I not been so close, or maybe it's just the illusion of the epic and sweeping show fading out into mechanicals and how it's a job for these boys (and ladies, sometimes) - I could see all the mistakes. I could see broken moments between the drummer and the rest of the band, I could see the frustrations with the sound guy - and as I snapped away, it became very very clear that we were - well, we were at a Show. this is a Performance. a thing that is put on, because you sold out the venue, because you making aching, epic, sweeping records and you write until your fingers fall off and we all pick up what you put down and we gladly fork over our fifteen dollars for your album and again for a ticket to see you do it live. and somewhere, somehow, either we are back a few rows and we don't see the distractions, and if we do, we forgive you, because we're all in love with it on some level the same way you are. but side stage... the transparencies were much more intimate. the look from one side of the stage to the other, all the signals to the sound guy (who I don't think was very good, btw, I mean, I couldn't do his job, but still), the yelling in the middle of epic large guitars - and it all got transcended by the times when everything was just On. on like a giant synchronized swim, complete with aching eyebrows and laughing and the whole thing becomes one fluid movement, and you're in it, and we're in it, and everything just Is. that makes up for every beat the drummer dropped, and all the moments where stuff was a smidge off key.

on the whole - the show was good. when they're nice guys, the show's always better. that being said, you could be a total fuckface if your entire show is On, because if you're that good, who gives a shit what you say when you're off stage. well, I don't believe that completely, but like, I heard ryan adams is kind of a dick, but he's got good lines, so he gets a pass. just for the show. all access, but only for like, four hours. but yeah - like I texted with patrick this morning - you were awesome, and the set was good - promise. because he was. and it was.

oh, and one more thing, since there is actually a little work to do this morning. I mean, it involves typing, and making gift bags, and it's not very work-y to me, but still. so when harvey danger played at lufest (because, you know, I saw them a couple of weeks ago and stuff, 'cause I like, live here now) and they played little round mirrors, he introduced it as something to the effect of "this is a song about liking music too much", or something. and last night, there were a couple of girls in the front row, one in particular, who was like, spun, as we put it on tour. like, wrecked out, aching, screaming every nuance, every moment, every facial contortion, every beat, every everything. it was a little unsettling. how much faith she, and these couple of older women front row (who might have been someone's mom, though, for all I know) put so much faith into the lead singer, so much of their ache into his show-ache, and maybe it's because I saw all the little frayed parts side-stage, but - I don't want to be that girl. there were girls during sea wolf, who danced their asses off, and sang up at the rafters, to each other, and jumped all about - and they were having fun, and leaving, and drinking, and coming back, and just enjoying themselves - but these other girls, that one especially - had like, crazy eyes. I'm not kidding. I don't ever want to be that girl. and I don't think I am, but still. I took a picture of her, just so I'd remember.

and speaking of remembering, before I forget, grainy, newspapery pictures of jeff hanson's in-studio here. which is where all new photos will be headed, as we overhaul le gallery fantastique over here at hot avocados.

kiss kiss, bang bang -
VVB

in the immortal words of my friend steve I used to work with:

"you won't __________ right now!" which he said to me like, every day. every morning (I was fat, and then I walked everyplace, and then it was easy to stay thin because I was walking everyplace) I would go to roberto's, get some form of egg sandwich, a coffee, and a little blueberry muffin loaf. like, they made the muffins in the tiny loaf pans instead of muffin pans. I loved them. big fresh bursting blueberries, little tiny pans. perfect. so every morning, he would say something to the effect of, "you won't go to robertos and get eggs and a coffee and a little muffin right now." and it was so, so funny. every day. I'd start laughing right when I saw him because I knew he was going to say it, and it never got old.

so, yeah. you won't write about your stupid good afternoon right now. you also won't get trapped in the garage leaving, and have everyone have to go to get back to the station, and come back to your job OVER AN HOUR LATE and not only not get fired but get asked how the show was right now.

you won't get guestlisted for a VIP club performance of okkervil river playing at the triple door on your lunchbreak, and you won't go, and you won't have awesome seats right now.

you won't take a hundred and forty-one pictures, and the band you see won't be epic and sweeping right now.

you definitely won't, offhandedly, tell cheryl waters that you can give her a ride if she needs one, and she won't accept, and you won't drive her, and jim beckman, and glen over to the show right now. they will not talk to you about how most people are too jaded to come down the hallway for an in-studio, let alone go *gasp* all the way to the triple door right now.

you will not get the shit kicked out of you by the show right now.

and you absolutely will not get introduced to the guy in the back of this photo, because he is not the bass player of said band, and you won't have enough balls to give him your card, and he won't hand you back his phone number and offer to guest list you, because the show is definitely not sold out right now.

no, I say. none of that will happen.

and there won't be more to follow. at all. right now.

xx
VVB

Cut to work. "Work" today means being present, available, and on-call for any slew or onslaught of paperwork (because when it happens, the shit happens) when my superiors are on-site. However, they are off-site, and I sit here, appropriately clad, eating an embarassingly large banana with organic (true) crunchy-style (also true) "easy-spread" (LIE) peanut butter, with my hands. At my desk.

Hi.

When, I ask, is the shoe going to drop? I am told repeatedly that there most likely isn't one. That, pending BioMed's budget availability (which seems to be pointing in my favor, from what I can gather) and my being deemed both worthy and necessary (check, and check) I am here to stay. If not, I'm sure it will be because something else will be in my cards that I've got to not be here to find. And in either case, I'm okay with it. This is the part I always tried to explain to Raf about credit cards - that pending gap between paychecks that is an emergency, or a potential one, that, had I some sort of prudent reserve / savings account I would not hold my credit cards in waiting for - but I don't, so I do. A bat is not an emergency. Nor is a pedicure. But, once again, I digress.

Oh, what's that, gmail? I have a new message? Ooh. Let's see:

Hello Victoria,

-------------------------------------------------------------
Confirmed: Events - Seattle
Venue: Moore Theatre
Subject: The National with Menomena
Date: Friday, September 19, 2008
Time: 6:30pm to 11:15pm

Oh, okay. What's that? I live here? This is happening in real-time? OKAY! Sure. Let me just put some baby powder in my boots, they stink. I'll see you at six.

A-hem.

So I wrote earlier about a boy, all embarrassed with himself in the coffeeshop this morning, who couldn't sit still. I can relate. And I tried, in vain, to accurately convey the cringe-factor of Salon of Shame last night, but my words failed me miserably. I will just paint the scene, and let your imagination take you where it will - because the truth is, you just had to be there. You had to. I could say things like Jesus, fleshly, abortion-buster, I AM NOT GAY, balonied, yesterday's obscure underacheivements, love is a feeling, and so forth - but out of context, they don't mean much.

Picture this: you are in a little theater, about 125 seats, another 25 people sitting / standing / what have you all around. There are black curtains, a black painted floor for a stage down below about six or seven levels of rows of seats, a microphone, a spotlight, and you. You hold, in your hands, some form of diary, maybe a little frayed old notebook, maybe with a unicorn on the front, maybe not. And you begin to read. And you cringe. And we cringe. And if it's really shame-worthy, you can barely speak these poetic words that once held every ounce of truth you thought you knew, and we are applauding and crying all at once. You bow. We revel in the fact that we are not alone in our utter, total, complete shame. And we all burst out into the nighttime, relieved. Under fake-city backdrops, light-up laughing bull neon window signs, and real gaslight anthems.

The total and complete exhaultation of laughter, the joy of release, the bonding of the cringe - this is what we're here for. All of us, lined up around the block an hour before almost, with the promise of everything that stage and that spotlight and our worn, faded pages hold for us. As a girl put it in the bathroom, it may very well be one of the greatest and most favorite things she's done since moving to Seattle. One of - yes. I will wholeheartedly agree.

That was my night. To increase the awesomeness, I will make note of my child-free state - there was no one to feed (well, Kristin took care of the cats), no one to pick up and bring anyplace, no sporting event to attend, no guilt, no hate, no justification, nothing. The most pressing part of the night was getting there on time, which snacks to have, money to procure both entry and snacks, and whether or not Dick's was on the docket at 10:30 pm.

I. Love. My. Life.

I also have to end with the disclaimer / footnote, and possibly start every sentence from here on out, with the fact that I am aware and totally okay with bulk of the cool and awesome things that I experience and / or am exposed to are as a result of Kristin paving the way, and I am totally okay with that. It's kind of like guide-dog time, where the dog just does what it does, because it knows how and has all these skillsets it's learned, and the blind person is like, holy fuck, I've had like, this stick I've carried around, so I don't like, wander into traffic and stuff, but this guide-dog thing - it's changed my whole life. I can go to parks and cross streets and maybe even make dinner and go to the store and I'm not stuck, empty and frantic, in a dark little world, the cat carrier, whatever analogy you want to insert here - so, dog analogies aside, this is how she opens up my world for me, and yeah, I get it, the blind guy has to have the balls to like, leave the house and everything, but - I think you can pick up what I'm putting down here. That is how my life feels these days. I get asked about moving here and I start talking about her first, what happened to me second. And I know eventually I'll look back and realize I've been riding the bike without anyone steadying it for me for longer than I realized, but still.

People, you'd better all get ready. Previously mentioned capabilities for mountain-moving are buried somewhere in the delicious nuggets still to be viewed this season. And you don't have to wait until you're home sick to enjoy it. It could just be like, a Wednesday.

From the hiding spot between the mattress and the boxspring where you were sure no one would look, broken hearts all-too-unlockable with a simple twist of a bobby pin,
VVB

Dude.

When they say shame, they are not kidding. Not one bit.

I want to write about last night, because I got here early enough to do the writing that I had to do (stepwork) but not the writing that I want to do, morning pages, whatever - but I'm just glad I got here remotely close to the time that I wanted to be here, and that the first number on the clock was 7 and not 8. And I packed lunch. Although I forgot the eggs I took the time to make last night to have for my salad. But yeah - I'm all distracted by this poor kid in the window, who is all, like, I'm going to have my coffee and read my book and be like, on my date with myself, and he's so fidgety that I'm uncomfortable for him. He's got a book and a cup of coffee and he's just totally unable to sit with himself - and I'm looking at him, like, fuck - I remember when that kicked the shit out of me. I still do it now, sometimes, but not much. But he's got this mess of floppy hair that he's unsure of, and he keeps pushing it all off to the side, and having to rearrange the way he is sitting because he can't just sit. Sit consciously, dammit. Maybe he's just gay and like, preening. But from what I can tell, he's pretty inwardly agitated.

That, and he's got a pencil thin mustache. Like he asks his friends at parties, what do you think, should I keep it? Yeah? Are you sure? I don't know... my rule is, all of that is just fine, but once you've left the house, you've got to own that shit. It happens to me when I wear my boots. But I digress.

So last night was like, The Most Fun Thing Ever. And I hear Janet right now going, "Victoria, but you like, say that every day, about something" - and maybe that's true, but - I don't even know if, outside of my well-intentioned capitalization, if I can convey with proper weight and girth the goodness that is Salon of Shame. Going was Kristin's idea, as are most of the Awesome things that I either attend or that happen to me on most levels. Something and something as a result of KEXP, a line in a song, a phrase in a book, a moment in a movie, or attendance at an Interesting Event. Things and Items.

For those of you lazy readers (and remind me to write later about people who get self-important about blogging) who did not take the time to follow yesterday's link, Salon of Shame is based on a thing in New York called Cringe. Picture this: 150 of your closest (friends) strangers, packed into a tiny little theater where you might expect to see some experimental play... black curtains, black painted stage below a small set of rows, a microphone, a spotlight, a knowing soundman, and your notebook -

from when you were twelve.

I am not kidding.

It's so bad that it's good. It's so revolting that it's key. It's so beyond any level of, well, cringing, the kind of cringing that you get when you want to change the channel (say, when Angela falls in the mud and proceeds to stay in the living room with Jordan Catalano instead of leaving), where you are just about too embarrassed to watch - but you watch - you stay - and it's totally delicious.

Marked moments from last night, before I head off to Work. Where I will undoubtedly not have much to do in the way of Work, but will be ready and available for the three hours (maybe, that might be pushing it) where they need me to be Ready and Able:

A guy reading from a journal from when he was at some kind of bible college, complete with self deprecating accounts of masturbation, maybe from a lack of love from Jesus;

Two separate women and accounts of girls they met and what they did and did not like about them, all the while proclaiming how not gay they were (who were like, totally gay);

Three years of a letter to the same boy, equated with the powers of God and many religious scriptures;

and Ariel herself with all of her unrequited eighth-grade play angst. And many, many declarations of love - how love just is, how it's a feeling, this love, this way of feeling, the drawing of breath, the gazing afar, the, I like her / him, but not like that - I mean, really.

I am sad to report that my "box" of items (read: angst-loaded little diaries with locks, photos, and notes fervently passed back and forth from desk to desk throughout most of junior high) is no more, having been stolen from Steve and Jon's mom's front porch years and years and years ago. But, as Kristin put it - it's not like the angst stopped at 15 or 16. Fuck, I was just getting ramped up, starting to take myself all seriously and shit.

It may not equate to Kristin's divine layers of copy, everything from the age of eight forward, including (but not limited to) the lack of God and the unfairness of parenting over New Kids On The Block tickets - but I'm sure we can come up with something. She'll be reading next time at the 3rd anniversary show on December 2nd (I think). Confirmation to follow. Oh - on the date, not on whether or not she's getting up there. It's too good to pass up.

On the run - kisses, and little moments in the margins of a diary hid purposefully between the boxspring and the mattress -

vvb

...when it was like September... something and something and something and -ember...

I can't belive that this was my life three years ago, with the beginning of the end of my love for myself (or, the next part of my book, or whatever you want to call it) beginning to happen in my relationship with Raf, awkwardly, terribly, pushing past the warning signs-ily, as I faded out into the sunset. Not in a good way. I almost started to cry remembering it all, the movies in my frontal lobe, and how my mom picked me up from the train that day. But I digress. And I don't mean to say that Raf was wrong, or that he did anything to me, or anything like that - it's just the first glimpse in my blog of me giving the keys away. More on that below.

Start at the bottom, by the way, so you go in the order of how the month went.

I am quite sad that CMJ is not in the budget this year. But wait - I live in Seattle. Oh, right. I almost forgot. MY LIFE IS AWESOME.

So, yeah, three years ago to the day, CMJ, watching "Drive Well, Sleep Carefully" at Michael's, referencing MSCL, and so forth. It's good. I can remember that Wrens show like it was last night, especially the part where it's so good that it's like, literaly killing you, and it just keeps happening and happening and happening. Not breaking the orgasm machine. And now every day is like that, practically. What took me so long?

Then we cut to September 2006. Wherein I am unable to leave a relationship I shouldn't be in, I can't free any of the hostages, I don't see it, I can't face it, and I start trying to convince myself that I am okay. For pages, and pages, and pages.

There is no entry for this time last year. August is as close as I got. And nothing after that, for months and months and months.

And here we sit, kids. Here we sit. I live here now. Don't look back (in the good way, you know, like the Boston song) - as I fill my planner with which shows to attend, make lists of tickets that need to be picked up, plan elaborate girl-only artist date nights at brilliant venues, and hope to whatever the Universe can hold that I never lose those pieces of me, ever again. I'm in the middle of writing about things in my life that are unmanageable with my new sponsor. I have to come up with three. The first one this morning was all about how I get whole and then hand over the keys to someone else, in fits of something that's part denial and partly totally real and tuned in, and then how I spend somewhere between 1 1/2 - 2 1/2 years trying to fix something that's broken beyond repair. First, the relationship, and then eventually, me. And I emerge, scarred, older, wiser, with more exposed wiring... and then the writing starts again.

I feel like entering my life with this knowledge is somewhat akin to entering having money with the frame of mind you have when you have no money. You make it work. You get creative. You do amazing things with less than you ever knew you could. And yet, you get a little money, and that frame of mind becomes ever so elusive, even though you love it and want it - you give it up, or pass it up, or do something easier - you say, "fuck it", on some level, and make yourself a couple of quick promises and drop the money before you can change your mind. Somehow, the marriage of the broke resourcefulness and the time of having more than just enough seems elusive - but wonderful. And obtainable, with a whole lot of elbow grease - literally, and figuratively. You who know these ways will know the elusiveness, and grease potential, and beauty, of which I speak. Now let's put all that in "I can shoot sparkles off the ends of my fingers if I just try hard enough" time, and apply it to evolving in a healthy relationship - well, now that - that could just about move mountains.

I hope to eventually look back and laugh, and be wistful, and remember when I didn't know how to do all of this, from the place in which it is all, in fact, happening.

Streaming in multiple formats, and ready in so many ways for the Salon of Shame,

Victoria (with a flourish)
:*

wtf, Universe? seriously. first on the faucets, then with the pritzker, then on the boxes from the shipping company. fine. I give. apparently there's something in the air about chicago, a place where I'm told I sound like I'm from, a place I've driven through but never been, a place I figure I should live in (or at least visit) before I expire.

the only funny thing to anyone but me, though, is the pritzker thing. so kristin and I were looking at the KEXP blog at all the pictures of andrew bird, and this venue, apparently called the pritzker pavillion. to wit:

now, kristin is trying not to use the word "retard(ed)" in varying forms and settings, which I highly admire. you know, I'm a, it is, this shit's so, that was totally, etc. so I send her the link to all these gorgeous shots, and state the following:

that venue is a word other than retarded that means what I mean when I say retarded. but just a different word.

to which she responds:

start substituting "pritzker".

which I got, after some explanation - I had gotten so caught up in all the pretty colors that I didn't know where she was getting the word from, and - well, okay. that's enough. so, pritzker it is. and then, cheryl starts talking about it, and says pritzker. then, I get a box with the office order, and all of them are from this office ordering supply place, except for one from buddy systems - in chicago (buddy and chicago? those are the ones where I think the Universe is like, yelling). I am quite sure that if I consulted the oracle of the shuffle that "phone call from chicago" or whatever the name of the song is would come barelling through the speakers. plus, I keep seeing chicago on faucets, little (literal) signs, it's bizarre. everywhere I look. I don't get it. it's been going on for a while now, but for some reason the volume got turned up today.

whatever. I'm listening, Universe. bring it. after all the shit that went down with the things I can't talk about surrounding a woman that I met that I already knew (kind of) and the ensuing events that followed on saturday, I am throwing my hands up in surrender. it's such a relief, so much less work and planning I have to try to take care of - the shit just happens. in a good way. there's enough shit to plan that's stuff I can do something about without spending a bunch of time on things that come out better than (what you had) anything I could plan.

I am my cat, throwing myself onto the floor on my back with reckless abandon.

kisses, from the windy city I guess,
vvb

I don't have much to say in regards to that, except for that it's Mercury Retrograde time, or to I won't let you let me down so easily (an unsent one-liner), or to this:

and the cancer eats away at me
so pleasantly
like ice cream with hard chocolate coating
pressed perfectly on a stick
but the sugar makes me sick
and in any case, I just can't stop myself

which was just some other random unsent draft in my gmail that I can't quite place, besides the date - as I was organizing all of my sent and saved and starred messages into files, and they like, gave me a bunch of work to do - can't they see I'm busy? Seriously.

Just kidding. Kind of. Anyways... yeah. So, yesterday was brilliant. We slept in Sundays. Only we like, got up and did stuff. And - well, I'll just let my notebook say it:

---

None of that ever happened. I started writing a letter to Gloria that I couldn't finish, what for the noise of my companions at the coffeehouse, dead batteries, and a lack of headphones (insert: poor planning, yes, Kristin, I know. I need to implement and maintain more systems...). I edited photos instead, a task more suited for the setting. The rest will come.

All of that aside, I was suddenly taken aback by my world, sandwiched in-between Sundays, hard to believe it's been seven days since the last Sunday at the park. Here I sit, reading in the grass, the sparkle of the lake a reach away, the light and the little shadows simultaneous on a blanket spread out purposefully under an aging tree. I fell asleep to a postcard, I woke up to a party with streamers. Laughing about vegetables and everything after, still the same mountain, people multiplied, all brought together and called to this page by the sound and the smell of the beginnings of a fire, all kept and bound by magenta ink.

"Per second, per second... and she was attracted to the (im)balance she saw him always trying to maintain, between the tweedy man of letters and the lyric and irrepressible poet."

books, all strewn about
spent
with the consumption of words
under leafy backlit trees
we are here,
you are missing.
the party afar
with streamers, but no music
like these words -
complete,
but without your voice bound to them
stretched out on a blanket
tangled limbs
purposeful touch

poets

the only sound between the silence
is our breathing
and the slap of the lakeside water
against the brick
frustrated, as I am, at the restriction.

---

I'm not sure if that last part is on that fine line of alright, good, decent, or fodder for the Salon of Shame in real-time, but whatever. I like it. It's like those pictures where I can't separate how it feels from the photograph, so to me, the afternoon was brilliant, and that's all I can see.

Back to (kindof) work. xx

vvb

holy shit. last night was A-Ma-Zing, capital letters where appropriate, trademarked as necessary. there's so much that I can't write about, and so much I can, but it's sunday night and I think there's going to be some movie action happening. here's what I can talk about though:

I woke up, bleary-eyed, and too excited to sleep. not only did I dance for four straight hours last night, I got that fucking party started, because people out here aren't really down with dancing or something. the thing is, I can't dance, and I don't know how to dance, as many people who know me will attest to. I. Can't. Dance. and I danced last night like the shit was going to save my life. darek mazzone, as I sent in a note to cheryl, is my new personal jesus. I had my hands up in front of that booth last night, and all of a sudden, every moment of my life made sense. I was soaked in sweat, my feet were killing me, and the shit just wasn't stopping - boys dancing and not, friends there and not, alone and not, all everything the whole time.

that was the party, with a great set from man plus. you can see it on flickr here.

the stuff I can't talk about from yesterday - oh. like a sol rosenberg "oh". so much, so great, like winning the fucking lottery, just like my horoscope said I would. only it's better than anything I could have planned, because the shit is so good, my head couldn't even come up with it on its own. maybe kidding around, like, hey, imagine if so-and-so was this-and-that? and this other thing? wouldn't that be funny? but... no. I don't think my head would have let it get that good. let's just say... there's a person here, that I assigned to a Very Important Position in my mental and emotional life, who knows a lot of Things. very, very Amazing Things, and People, and has a lot to do with Things and Items that rhyme with underoos and zen blizzards. yeah. totally coincidental, not on purpose, and throwing sevens every time, except the dice aren't loaded... this is just How Things Are™. Ambervision™. DynoDoodle™. Think Different™.

now, if I can just figure out umlauts... I just don't feel like looking. what did we do before the oracle of google was ours to consult? books. gasp.

where was I? oh. yeah. there's movies, and chocolate cake, and dishes... oh, and (sister) I'm a poet. but I have to dig out the notebook for that one, and I have to go, but just right now. we're going to have to pause for the cause. much, much more to follow.

kisses, and sunny back-lit tree branches, and bliss, and mirrory lakeside moments,
vvb

emails sent, read, delivered, processed, bought, sold, or otherwise this morning: about 200, plus a few texts.

just kidding. but today has been a lot. with much punctuation. to wit:

* just went to turn up the clock radio via the computer speaker volume knob. guh. I am perfectly wasted on caffeine, treading that delicate thread of a line between debilitating ADD and Totally Fucking Focused. more would not be better. less would be a waste. bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb

* I can pay you for your advice, but it would have to be with sex. or cupcakes.

* hi. I live here. you're on the radio.

* Victoria you must learn where Devotchka is playing next, buy an airline ticket (IMHO Southwest Airlines is inexpensive and service is friendly all things considered) hitchhike or hop a freight train to wherever that is, get yourself into the show somehow (pretend you are 15 again?) and prepare to be amazed. And fall in love too because their lead singer is the sexiest dude alive and I say that as a confirmed hetero with some pissed-off ex-girlfriends and one wife who'll testify to that effect. And yes there is a tuba with Christmas lights and speaking of that and sexy what is sexier than a woman playing a brass instrument? Absolutely effing nothing, that's what. And they have a Theramin for chrissakes. How cool is that?

* what? sequins? I want to live in sequins. omg.

* omg yes. I practically shat. no joke. (ref: john roderick, I strove to grow a beard.)

and lastly, but bestly:

* thank you for powdering my shoes. that was very nice of you. and my coworkers thank you as well. and the cat. and the neighbors. and the health department.

gotta run. rooftop lunchtime is waiting. I love my fucking cupcake-infested, sequined, shiny, caffeinated life.

:*
vvb

probably not a whole lot. I'm all still stuck in notebook time. she changes her glasses with the seasons and his brother's grown so fond of me, I found a song I wanted to share with america this morning like speakers coming out of the center of my chest, loud and complete. that kind of thing. I got up for the gym this morning in the middle of a dream, looked at my phone cross-eyed, and promptly shut it off. then I woke back up in a panic figuring it was around 9, but it was only 6:30, so I showered and ran out. and now I've had some espresso, and a raspberry oat muffin, and I've got to run to make sure I have enough cash for the dude coming from CL with the office chair. yikes.

it's just another friday, six weeks into the chapter, and another amazing everyday pink coffeeshop morning passes. I'm sure I won't be too busy at work today, so I'll get more words out later. kiss kiss.

vvb

shit, this was such a good show.

hours slept last night: 4
espresso shots consumed thus far today: 4 (hey, it's early)
hours currently at work today: 4
hours spent at work actually working: about 2
hours spent at work cutting interesting things out of the stranger: about 1
times "interesting" meant "things that had swears in them": 4
times "things that had swears in them" meant the word "fuck": 4
horoscopes read: 3
times I started laughing so hard, alone, that I almost wet my pants: 12
rad KEXP related things coming up next week: 3
rad KEXP related things coming up next week that involve me getting to
see ridiculously good bands for nothing: 2
months in my planner this morning: 18
months in my planner now: 12
amount I reduced my monthly cell phone bill by: $14.00
amount I spent on new caller tunes: $7.96
times I said, "that's it, I am definitely buying a pack of cigarettes,
right now" today: 8
number of cigarettes I have smoked since june of 2004, I think: 0 (wow)
average song size of the KEXP dj sets today: 6, at least

I think something is going on over there. john in the morning ripped
his heart out around 6:30 or so and the shit was just crazy. I'm
surprised there wasn't blood coming out of the speakers. to the point
where I sent a note to him about it. if that's real, and not just this
morning's show, dude is in some serious shit. here's a sample:

radiohead - how to dissapear completely
air france - maundy thursday
moby - memory gospel
ulrich schnauss - on my own
maps - it will find you
u2 - with or without you
yo la tengo - damage
lcd soundsystem - someone great
jose gonzalez - teardrop
leonard cohen - hey, that's no way to say goodbye
damien jurado - trials
helio sequence - shed your love
interpol - nyc
sinead o'connor - the last day of our acquaintance

(at this point, between sinead and the lack of comments from mr.
richards, I began to discern that this was not just a coincidental
array of words.)

and it just kept going, and going, and going. go check out the
playlist from 6-10 today. prayers & tears, simon & garfunkel. the
cure. elliott smith. titles like "the morning show: soundtrack to lost
love, confusion, and life." which would be fine if it was just
angst-themed, but when it's themed (say, a bunch of bands from new
jersey) he'll talk about it. and not only did he not talk about it,
dude didn't talk. cheryl isn't saying shit, either. it's nuts. the
morning show: trying to figure out how to deal with the other 20 hours
of the day.

you, I presume, catch my drift. but I can't put enough words to how
much you can feel it, or how much I could feel it, all lightly-slept,
achy speakers in the shower, achy sunrise this morning at the needle,
watching from the imaginary highway, parked for a few minutes, gold
glare bouncing off the buildings, broken glass on the pavement, trying
to take it all in.

the morning show: in need of the morning faithful.

I'm glad I took the time to write him.

I'm going to get fired. oh wait - THERE'S NOBODY HERE.

right.

xx
vvb

PS - cheryl did not say, "hit it, herb" for the first time in like, I don't know, every time I've heard her show. something is definitely up over there. although I know kristin would prefer it if it were permanently so... "hit it, herb" will be her audio hell should she pass through that way in her next lifetime.

and everything told me to go back, so I did, suddenly, crossing traffic to change my mind. I wanted so badly to find solace in those little orange lights, and to lose myself in the glow - but instead the moments got drowned out by strangers, their first-dates polites and nice-ities, and so I started down the block instead, fixed on the mirror of the lake shining back at me from the bottom of the hill. there were steps with a view, streetlamps and cityscape complete and so I sat. all drawn in by signs and surprises, aloha to boston, a parking spot in front of a white van and an open gate that I dreamed about and knew would be there long before I arrived. light-up vacancy signs, sinking ships all solitary through the back window - then the strains turned to "car" and I knew it was over, and that I had to go. there was terrible retching from an open window somewhere above the sidewalk, destroying all the perfect silence, and in just an instant everything got shattered, and I was gone as quickly as I had come.

and the songs that came on in-between broke me into a million shining pieces and made me whole, everything, all at once.

--

so I go into this thriftstore at lunchtime. I walked to the post office where I had on headphones and was interacting with a deaf man behind the counter, he had a big glossy book full of pictures of stamps, the page where he asks for payment, if you want insurance, anything like that. and so before I realized this, and as I realized it, I said, "breast cancer stamps", and I motioned to my chest, and thought in that moment that it probably was not the most appropriate thing to be pantomiming to this guy, and he missed it (thankfully) and I had to write it down on a dry erase board. he had gotten very good at writing things upside down so he didn't have to pass the board back and forth, he wrote out his numbers with great care. so I leave and I stop into this thrift store, thinking I might find a chair or cream colored corduroy blazer, and I have the headphones on, and I pull them off and go, is this just a thrift store? because there was so much stuff everywhere that I thought maybe it was just a drop off place in a storefront, and the woman takes my hand and goes, no, honey, you come in here. it's a magic thrift store. and proceeds to tell me it's a paywhatyoucan kinda thing, or whatyouthinkit'sworth, and I found the greatest chairs that rolled all around but they went with a seventies dining set that was up in the window. the place was a wreck. all old books and hotel toiletries, piles of leftover clothing, shoes that didn't match, and albums that had been put on tape and forgotten about in someone's glove compartment. I tried to find an old mix tape that someone had made and left behind, but there didn't seem to be any. I think we should all bring our goodwill piles there. it was amazing, somehow, and all the women working there talked casually about god to each other like it was talking about what they might like to have tomorrow at lunch.

seriously. I vote for endless summer sunsets at golden gardens every night we can manage it. before the weather turns and stabs us in the back relentlessly.

(shiny pink editing courtesy of my girl k, who can make things you don't even know about yet better than anything you could ever imagine.)

johnny cash cover tunes on in caffe vita this morning. mortgage talks at the table to the left, motorcycle man at the table to the right, and me, late for a date with myself. I'm trying to give the music a shot, but the conversations are drowning out the purity of it and distracting me. headphones, go.

omg that rules. it's all drowned out now, there's all the same movements and all the same light, and - cripes. pantomimes and everything washes over like a wave. this is better than drugs, better than drinks, checking out in the present to focus - kind of like meditating then I guess. how have I lived my whole life without having these and doing this all the time?

I consult the oracle of the shuffle: engine driver > golden years / bowie. perfect.

would I were beside her... ngh.

so I was writing in my head this morning on my way to work, because I was late, and then I realized that I was just running late for myself. so I decided to save the walk for lunch to go to the post office, and to just park in front of the cafe and make sure I had the time for myself this morning. and in an instant, all right then, it hit me - that I had become important to myself. or, more important, I should say, important enough to be concerned about being late, important enough to get out of bed early and don't let me hear you say that life's taking you nowhere write or work out or just maybe walk instead of driving and rushing and pushing and wishing I had made the time for myself to do more, be more, want more. this beautiful, beautiful girl just walked in in a - irridescent purple - I want to call it chartreuse or charmuse or something, even though I know that's the wrong word - dress, and all modern farrah fawcett hair, and she is SO going to be a character in my book. she hes on red strappy wedges and her toenails are pink. I wish I had a polaroid, but the reality of her in that bright, harsh light would probably not be as good as she is all made up in my mind this moment. I want to call her violet, but that would be a cliche. she needs a better name, like carlita or francesca or something. perfect little eyelets detailing the back of her dress, with a single button, a made up face, two bangles, a green clutch, well-accessoried, perfectly vintage, vintage made better like the apartments I hear about on the radio. if you don't take her out tonight, she's going to change her mind... that will be her theme. nameless girl in a dress I'm calling the wrong color, you're gonna lose that girl will play over the speakers as you get followed out the door of the cafe with a camera just like in slacker. perfectly. only you needed sunglasses to help with the glare, or maybe you didn't need them because you wanted to make sure you saw everything so clearly, so that you could feel all the glare and the burns and the good parts too.

maybe here is where I will nano. stranger delivery. omg. and stranger delivery! mixed metaphors! bell on a desk going off, rapidly. I am going to write kristin this morning, like, dude, one of my characters for the book walked into the cafe this morning while I was writing before work, all having to push away the novel because I'm not supposed to write it yet. it was stranger delivery. and then the stranger delivery guy came in, and... omg. coldplay, that I would usually not voluntarily put on.

I missed the good part
I started looking, and the bubble burst
I started looking for excuses
come on in, I've got to tell you
what a state I'm in
I've got to tell you
in my loudest tones
I started looking for a warning sign
when the truth is,
I miss you...

I'm just going to melt up into a puddle all over the floor. and right this morning I was like, maybe I need to go to a show or smoke some cigarettes and create some kind of reverb or delay, to put the shine back on, but there's plenty of it all right here.
I realized that you were an island, and I passed you by - I am just going to show up and move my fingers around, on a little less sleep than I'd like, and the book is going to wind up writing itself. typing. but still. shiny clean windows, stars that say "best places", the smell of fuel and cake, wobbly stools, dark enclaves, and eventually I'm sure all rain against the window in the grey morning time. dave matthews? mighty purple? riverside? alright, I'll go with it. it's a sign, right? everyone in here must think I'm insane, all typing and laughing at myself. I will not take the time here to remit the lines about cheese that are assaulting me currently... oh wait, I just did.

ten minute warning. so what else - I'm debating whether or not to go to okkervil river next week, they will be *fabulous* I'm sure, but I think they're at a place where the ticket price starts with a 2. and there are not many people I am willing to push that amount of money out of my checkbook for. beastie boys. omg. I am getting such total sensory overload. do the headphones ever have to come off? kristin said something about existing out of my comfort zone, just a little. they're staying on. the mike stands for money, and the d is for diamonds... right. I want to say something right now about how writing the book is going to be easy, but I will refrain, because I know it most likely will not. I know a lot of def girls that'll do anything I think it's just that I am aware, with all the white noise blocked out, that same white noise that I invite in the nighttime, just how much fucking copy there is everyplace. my copy. stranger copy. stranger delivery copy. headphones copy.

and the big unmarked van pulls away from the curb, another branch, and I wonder about piercing my lip, but that's quite the commitment to make - it's kind of like when I had pinkish hair, and sometimes things didn't match, and I had to take it all day, every day, there was no departure from it. maybe I could get like, a magnetic one. but then, where's the fun in that? again, kristin, with the wisdom - why don't you get a job before you go putting anymore holes in yourself. is that the modern version of our moms telling us to wear pantyhose and sit up straight? those pearls, literal and proverbial, that we take with us - filtering through, and the only other things I hear over my music is the slamming of the espresso machine parts and pieces of moments of johnny cash through the speakers, and there's a hat sitting there on the table that's so fucking perfect that I can't believe I don't have my camera with me fumbling with your blouse to make it a page in the book.

oh wait, I do. thanks, steve jobs, and everyone that the light and the half-light was able to help me bring you a moment from this morning. angle and size notwithstanding.

:*
vvb

really. I'm not kidding. omg.

and do you think they'd understand it if I said, look - I'm all achy and electric all at once, and these headphones - well, they're changing everything, and I was on my way here from the coffeeshop this morning, and I wanted to walk right past the office - see, there's all these things I say, all these words that I mean, and then sometimes I want to pull them back off of the pages I send and reshape them into new statues, even though it's all the same things... and every second of my life just makes me catch my breath these days, all sharp and complete, so - if I could just go out and walk for a little while, and I promise that later I'll go back to making tiny electronic files in between writing about all the things we pass back and forth, these things we carry around but can't quite bring ourselves to say - and maybe I'll just have to walk all the way to where you are and put these headphones on your ears instead of speaking, and hope that somehow it will all be easier to see than everything I've managed to tangle myself up in...

I won't let you let me down so easily.

waking up and going to the gym at six a.m. is good. really. other things that are good: singing in the shower, walking forever with headphones on, meetings, and tuesday nights off from everything. oh, and playlists. all this music and all these moments I can't seem to shake.

I logged in all full of ache, another wonderful day gone past, wilco pops on the playlist (my tongue turns to dust) and I don't feel like I have words right now. I felt like a fucking superhero this morning after the gym. walking down the street with a gym bag like a flag slung over my back, triumphant. off to a day at work where they told me they loved me, and to stretch out the days so that they could explain how they needed to keep me. panini with big mushrooms. black ink in a work-only notebook that I swiped to pile the words up during the day. walking, walking, movie soundtracks every minute of every step on the sidewalk... (trying to rid you from my bones) and I guess just general deliciousness. all goodness, all the time. dave tv.

today at work, at lunch, where the big mushrooms were - they asked me where hot avocados came from. and all of a sudden, sets of eyes are all on me, two of the three wearing cornflower, safe, and I wondered if they really wanted to know, and this hole in my nose has liberated me, or maybe that's all the timing - I'm back at the stage where everything is crackly and electric and amazing (I am all that you had hoped for) and so I'm like, whatever - I have nothing to lose, right? so I told them about my fondness for analogies, and how I was writing a fan letter in the back of one of my notebooks, and how I talked about things that were perfect, and how avocados can be just like that sometimes, perfect (it was the first two weeks of autumn) and - well, I didn't tell them about wanting to write with glen hansard until my head exploded all over the walls, but just about how things can be perfect like that sometimes, plus how I like to dice up avocados with a little sea salt for twenty seconds in the microwave (toy guitars > epic piano-strung chords) and how it all just kind of fell together. then katy talked about how much joie de vivre I have, about how I peaced out a construction worker from the window of the car, because he stared, so I figured why not practice on him, just like, saying hello, and opening lines from a car that's driving away - she actually said, we should hang out - I need more people like you in my life! everyone I know is too scared to do that... I was floored (I need you so much closer) and proceeded to talk about kristin and I and the discussion about the theory of practicing in safe situations so that you can kind of get the rust out, so that when the cards are on the table, it's a lot more realistic of you to be able to avoid watermelon-carrying comments, or to find out where your propensity for watermelon-carrying is, boundaries, limits... like, oh, that worked - or, oh shit - that did not work at all - I love the practice. it's so carefree, and you can't mess it up. I've been throwing lines out for practice of late, but no takers yet - I'll have to keep you posted on that one.

so, yeah. so they meant all of that, about me, and I walked around and got espresso afterwards, all alone with the headphones again, and I have to tell you, these fucking headphones are changing my whole life - it's ridiculous. I want to walk and take the bus around instead of driving so I can have them on and paint my movie all the time. playlists and long stares reflecting out the window of the city bus, so much copy I wouldn't know what to do with it all - sheesh.

wall approaching (so come on) and I think I have to wrap this one up - so that was my day. gym and everything after. tomorrow will be notebook and everything after. I like going over to caffe vita by work on 5th I think, so I might just plan it all out so I get over there early and can just leave and be at work in three minutes when I'm done with page-purging.

it comes on so fast. I've lost all ability to spell and form sentences. I'll have to save the rest for tomorrow (in a language that you can't read, just yet).

:*
vvb

my coffee was exceptionally good this morning. maybe it was all the roasted glass and honest mistakes... as I sit stealing sentences at my desk, hoping you'll post, loving you completely. it's so hard to get used to life being all awesome, all everything, all the time, all the best songs one after the other like little assaults. it's not stopping. like barbarella in the orgasm machine, only I can't break it, and I don't want to. do you think they'll take my resident card away for putting dashboard on my headphones on the sidewalk at 6 am so that I could sing about being undone? wonder woman walk the streets, spinning in the sparkle of the sidewalk, punch drunk holes to set me free, one little lit-up shining glittery instant at a time... write on, girl. write on.

if I had to pick one photograph to sum up all the angsty screaming awesomeness that was death cab, all getting saved from the front row at bumbershoot, this would be it.

perfect.

kisses,
vvb

Wow. What a sentence that is, right? I'm just going to take a second to stare, and let it sink in.

(pause)

Cripes. Yeah. Tonight was a night full of needles, assholes, pussy, cunts, blowjobs, gunshots, dancing, gay men, and the N-word.

Give up? Come on... no, okay, you'd never guess in a million years, because I wouldn't either, and I was there. The randomness of my night is equivalent to when we used to play drunken charades, acting out music lyrics as pulled out of a basket. Have you ever tried to pantomine, "Mr. Cab Driver, fuck you, I'm survivor"? Or, "I am the eggman, they are the eggmen, I am the walrus (coo-coo-ca-choo)"? And yes, you had to get your partner to say the coo-coo-ca-choo part, which is harder than you think, even after managing to get that particular sentence to become an answer. Anything with eggs and taxis became popular those nights, "Taxi driver, I'm the egg man" also found its way into our alcohol laden stratosphere. How funny those nights were, all at Lesley's boyfriend's Dave's place, with his friends and beer and playing the Name Game.

Ah, the five minutes of fun I had in a decade of drinking. Right. Where was I? Oh, yes - you almost broke my pussy finger.

Well, tonight I had non-elaborate plans for Date Night. I like going on date night with myself, Artist Dates, where you have to all get ready and be on time like you'd be for a boy, only just with yourself. So, I set out, armed with Kristin's chunky headphones, a pile of still-newish-to-me music, and intentions for sunset, a tattoo, maybe a meeting, and coffee-too-late at Victrola and some writing. What wound up happening was getting my nose repierced, Ben Gibbard kicking the shit out of me on said chunky headphones, and as I meandered down 15th in search of a window seat, I came across a movie screen set up on the sidewalk. Delicious. And the kicker? It was John Travolta Double Feature night. Saturday Night Fever, and Pulp Fiction. Seriously.

I sat down and promptly met Ingy, who had just sort of kinda sorta started doing random movie nights here and there. Here tonight was a place I don't even know the name of, somewhere between Aloha and Lladro. I stayed, laughing, freshly pierced, and was promptly assaulted with disco dance scenes and unprepared passerby. People just walking, trotting along, headphones and not, on their way to wherever, totally taken aback by the fact that movies were playing in front of a bar on a stand-up screen. It was awesome. I wound up hanging out for both and had a blast, not even really chatting anyone up, just hanging out, laughing at the funny parts, dancing at the dancing parts, eating a salmon roll, and happy that these are the sorts of things that happen at home. This is my neighborhood, and these are our Saturday nights.

So, yeah. That's where the needles, cunts, pussy fingers, blowjobs, and dancing came from. There were more needles in Pulp Fiction, plus some moderate drug use, a bunch of gunshots, motherfuckers, and N-bombs. Oh - and I don't know if it was a gay bar, but it was probably 65% gay guys, and some straight couples thrown in for good measure... come to think of it, that's the ratio at most places around here. I can't even think (type) straight - shit. It's like, 3 am. So late, and so much more to say, like how I listened to the Beatles and DeVotchka on the way home, pigtails and sparkles, Mercer to 12th to Aloha, singing at the top of my lungs, no one in sight, dancing with myself downhill on the sidewalks. If we hadn't gone running this morning, I think I might have walked all night, because that's the kind of night it was. It felt almost a little magic-y. But the day has been long, and as has been the case the last couple of nighttime posts, I'm plugging along and I hit a wall, and I can't get one more coherent sentence out of myself. And the wall has come. So it's time to go.

Signing off from the fort, with a tattoo appointment on the 24th (because my heart is, in fact, full of black ink, and it's time to do this already).

:*
VVB

so I'm all full of words, funny and sad all at once. I've looked up some information (read: consulted the oracle of google) in regards to drunk dialing, and apparently to the legitimate moderate-to-heavy alcohol consuming world, drunk dialing is all tangled up with regret, embarrassment, and the like. I can relate, having had my share of horrid, blackout, nightmare phone calls at 1 am. calls I didn't remember at all, that I was fascinated by, going through the phonebill like a trainwreck and christmastime simultaneously, looking to see where I'd gone and who I'd reached out to.

in most of my cases, I couldn't remember anything, and what I did remember horrified me. hours with psychics on 1-900 lines, or multiple orders of magic dusters and amazingly absorbent carwashing cloths - these things I could bear. and keep in mind, I was a consistent throw-up blackout drinker, so my case is a little more extreme than most I think. but the horrifying parts - those were the calls to boys, always to boys, mostly to exes, sometimes to brag, sometimes to cry, sometimes for whatever reasons escape me now because like I said, I can't remember. some of them have been kind enough to remind me, and it's more than I can even bear to type right now, because I would say stupid, egotistical, awful things. I'm surprised these people still took the time to befriend me.

but then there were endearing moments. like calling kimmy for a ride home, after not talking to her in years, because I knew she'd be there. those kinds of moments where my subconscious took over, where my insides made decisions for me - where I can look back and watch the science project that I had become - those were the times when the drunk dial became a story in and of itself, regardless of the outcome. there was the time too with the boy in high school that was shy around me, who would glance over fervently at lunch or at the beginnings of parties, and then once he'd been sufficiently liquored up at that weekend's bender, he'd come by and lean in with abandon. it happened three or four times, and he'd do it in front of all his friends, and then would barely be able to speak to me the rest of the time - and I knew it was coming, I'd wait for it, and cherish it when it happened. I feel like sometimes that whole subconscious that gets tapped into during those moments - that that part of us is true, right, and pure - perhaps one of the few good things to come out of having had a couple too many to drink. the courage. the abandon. the truth.

and I will say, and have witnesses to back me up, that I felt all of these things and had this whole stream of belief prior to last night, being on the receiving end for once. I'm sure I could hunt the blogs and notebooks and find something verbatim to this post, someplace.

so about last night... yeah. I can still see it like a little movie, perfect moments, and whole chunks of time I'm trying to not give too much weight to. all this truth and abandon, trembling perfect moments in the streetlights, hearing everything I wanted to know, no filters, no pretending, no one standing there doing what they think they should. I almost wish everyone could be like that all the time - a little bit buzzed, just telling the truth, a little more reckless, a little more courageous. and it's weird, because I am like that all the time, with black ink in my veins and my heart on my sleeve - and so many times there's so many people who hide in what they think they know, or what they tell themselves, or what they tell themselves about what they think other people think about what they think they know. I would rather feel awkward or embarrassed or courageous or face-first into whatever was happening than do that whole dance with myself - because, let's face it, and I've said it before - I can't dance. not even a little bit.

and with four hours of sleep (barely) under my belt from yesterday, it's 11 pm and it might as well be 2 in the morning again - trays up, belts fastened, off to another chapter of everything. on top of all those sparkling sidewalks and little windows, I'm still all tangled up in stage lights and local all-stars, in words and shining little moments, in walking down the sidewalk grinning ear to ear as I get more and more fascinated with everything. there's a tearing apart that it took (and is taking) to get here (and stay here) as kristin talked about earlier today, but it's worth it. I love the raw open insides spilling out everywhere, wanting everything, not settling, reaching, pushing, as ben gibbard comes through these little speakers and another night passes in the fort, and it's all still so perfect. broken, sexy-eyed, well-kissed, inky, tired, peace signs out the window, reckless abandon, and perfect.

it's so amazing to have this kind of life, where there's so much to cherish and take care of and appreciate about everything I am and everything I'm becoming - and to have nothing to lose. to be so fearless and yes-based. yes. I love it. I love everything about everything.

and when it hurts - well, it's all copy. that always makes it good for something.

right?

:*
vvb

to wit:

I'm always horrified at -- especially the women I know -- who go through things like divorces, and five years later, they're still going, "Oh, look what he did. Look what the bad boy did to me." Right? Get over it! Turn it into something. Stop being a victim. That is one of the most important lessons of "everything is copy," is you must not be the victim of what happens to you. You must own it. You must get above it. It's just an unbelievable lesson in terms of how to live your life, especially if you're a woman. Espcecially. It was always one of my most fundamental irritations with the women's movement, in my era of it, was how quickly they embraced victims and victimization and still do.

~Nora Ephron

I'm starving and I can't eat. I want to and I look at the food and it's just wrong.

last night (while driving), on the back of a map:

sitting at 2 am, making deals with myself in a courtyard full of twinkling little orange and white lights in the glow - I had to stay so I could be a photograph. empty kisses on cement steps, nothing and everything, all at once. we only truly exist in the pages of our notebooks in the pauses and the spaces full of all the things we can't quite bring ourselves to say... and so it leaves us be, singing under a streetlamp, out of promises, wondering what might have been - while you whisper things in my ear that I can't quite understand.

and when it
it started getting dark
and I trudged back to where the car was parked
no closer to any kind of truth
as I must assume was the case
with you.

*sigh*

I could tell my whole life with the right combination of songs. all these epic sweeping moments, death cab tonight, as loud as I could take it at 2 am, everyone sleeping but you and me.

I sat on a sidewalk full of empty kisses, staring at the little orange lights - I stayed behind because I didn't want it to end, and I could feel it slipping through my fingers the minute the car pulled away from the curb. I stayed behind so I could be a photograph, all silhouetted perfectly... you whispered things in my ear I didn't understand

and when it started getting dark
I trudged back to where the car was parked
no closer to any kind of truth
as I must assume was the case with you

and I don't have anything to give. you asked me what I wanted, and I told you everything, all the words I could manage to get out, only in those moments in between other moments at night, like little windows for spaceships, gone forever if you don't take them right then. how the ink burns through my veins like lights reflecting in the lake, how we're both so scared and broken, and how I can see through you the way you can see through me. we're all so transparent, all of us -

tonight you were careful with me, and honest, and complete. there is an us, there is our things, but some nights, moments like these, still so full of total and complete ache, I wonder if that us is only in between the words we manage to write down for ourselves, the things we almost can't say even when we know no one else is watching, those spaces and pauses when we wonder what might happen if we really told the total and complete truth.

and cats climb ladders in the nighttime and my words are all tangled up, so I'll leave it with a song, and try again tomorrow to write it all down. I'll send you a hundred letters in my sleep, and wake up to the page filling in, and when you wonder from another city whether or not it's you I'm writing about as I type into the sunrise on a thursday, it is.

Well, I don't know if being at a show counts, John Roderick all walking up to the table I was standing at. Still. I don't know if I remembered to mention it.

"Hi. I'm on the guest list for Death Cab. Roderick?"

With his +1, who was another dirty boy. in case any of the ladies are wondering. I was kicking the ground like a horse in a panic, trying not to yell anything, biting my lip, screaming at Deb with my eyes. Sheesh. And Cheryl was right, he looks like a grizzly mountain man. Sort of like Garth, from Wayne's World... not kidding.

Real sighting (which would make it 3 so far) though was Sean Nelson last night, all with a basket at 10:30 at QFC. Cripes. I was singing to myself, and I was somewhere between a big grin and all far-away face listening to "A Long December" being pumped through the grocery store sound system, and he came around the corner and caught my eye. And the big grin. Awkward. He kind of smiled back and said hi, like, the kind of hi when you're wondering why someone is smiling at you, should I know who this is - slash - am I being stalked? All of that in a little strange hello-ish partially smirked kind of smiling but not face.

Ben said it from the stage on Monday - we'll see you in line, he said, getting slices of pizza, and at the grocery store. Hence me screaming out about QFC. So it wasn't Ben, but still. He was right. We'll see you.

Because we live here.

We come to Seattle.

Back to shuffling the little papers around, strange papers and tiny electronic files -

Kisses,
VVB

I am so, so spent. I just took the last hour and edited photos, I'm so tired but I had to get it off my list. I have about six that will sort-of kind-of do from death cab, but it's like when I went to see ray lamontagne that time and the pictures would have been great with proper equipment - it almost pains me to see them and see how good they might have been. I've got to add "get a better lens" to the to-do / to-buy. which are not always mutually exclusive, target brand listmaker people. seriously.

and I'm still so reeling. singing lines from perfect moments in the stage light, the light and the half-light, all ben gibbard in shades of bright cobalt and magenta, singing out of the corner of his mouth. going to a ton of really, really good shows puts a shine on you that takes a lot of time to wear off, and I've got it bad. or good, I should say. really, really good. I can't stop seeing it, like movies burned into my frontal lobe (or wherever your head stores this stuff). how good the old 97s were, all up close at the KEXP stage. john vanderslice and his letter to the east coast, perfect, reeling. good seats for everything. canadian boys singing in my ear, just loud enough to help me hear all the words. I'm all blown away by everything, overtired and in hysterics at target, playing games like little kids tripping on the escalator. ripping covers off of books with abandon. affirmations, life, everything coming together in a living room on capitol hill. and going back to my favorite meeting I've found out here so far tomorrow, hopefully with janelle.

I'm starting to sort through stuff, and this week I've got to list out some goals (hence the to-buy and to-do). there's stuff I want to do this week, this month, this quarter, this year... little moments and big lofty maybe-probably-I-think-I-cans. all perched up in the loft, replacing fear with hope, replacing panic with excitement, turning it all around. taking myself less seriously, but taking the serious parts and making them real. I had a good chat with erin today that I had to cut short to go back into work, about how moving is so hard and so scary, and how much easier it is to not do than it is to do, and how it changes everything about you. it's like I'm finding my garment tag for the first time and learning so much about myself. oh, wash in cold water. I thought I needed hot water, but that's bad for this fabric. I get it now. etc., having had all these good intentions all the while, and just needing someone in charge telling me that I needed to be gentle with myself. it's crazy.

you're not going to put charlie parker in with the rock and roll, would you?

like that. like little unspoken rules, the book that got handed out that I was absent for, those moments that click together like a puzzle piece you tried in that spot a hundred times it seems, finally finding a fit. love, nourishment, laughter, lots of water, and a fort, and a couple of crazy good shows - it's a recipe that can solve anything.

if I don't go to bed now, I'm going to pull an all nighter, and that just wouldn't be fair to the people at my job. they already think I'm bonkers. I told katy the story about how last night when ben was all, we'll see you getting slices of pizza, and in line at the grocery stores, I yelled out, "Yeah! QFC!" all loud and one of them laughed at me, but everything was so full and so much that I couldn't help myself. I wound up redeeming my character with a story about going to see colin meloy and how he sings out the corner of his mouth, and how these girls in line had explained it to me, and katy was all, you know, it's really not my thing, all this stuff with these bands, but you make it sound so good - imagine that! me! making it all sound so good. and all I'm doing is talking about it the way it really is.

speaking of, decemberists at the end of november, moore theater, $32.00 before the frigging fees! no f-ing way, especially not to have to fight kids in braces on a sunday night. we're going to spend the money on sushi instead and put all the albums on shuffle in the living room and it will be almost as good. designated decemberists night. or something.

kristin - I know I'll forget - we've got to get okkervil river tickets, like, stat. and pinback, if you want to go, if not I can go with janet. I know you're in the next room and everything, but I don't feel like climbing down out of the fort to leave a note. it's waaaaay past my bedtime as it is.

kisses, everybody. and big epic moments in front of the stage. I'll save you a spot.

xx
VVB

holy shit.

the pictures I have burned into my brain are much, much better than what my camera churned out (crap) because I couldn't flash at the KEXP in-studios, and I couldn't bring a detachable lens to the big show.

yes, that is john vanderslice, the old 97s, superchunk, and death cab.

no, I did not have to zoom.

I spent all of death cab up in the front front front, hanging over the railing, screaming my head off. I was pressed tight up against not only the railing, but deb, the finance major in the funny hat from oregon state, and the hot canadian about to travel europe on his parents' dime. and as we speak (type) I am officially declaring myself a bumbertard. this applies not only to my behaviors exhibited this evening pre-show to get in and get up front, but also to the state I am in currently, as a result of said show, which will roll into tomorrow I'm sure - spent, amazed, sore throat, and having seen more bands in one weekend than anyone should see in a month. and almost all of them were really, really, really good. overstimulated, with sore feet and a head full of movies of epic, sweeping, amazing moments. when we left tonight to walk back to the car, I could have sworn I was wasted. but in a good way.

I did it. I was in the front row. and it was the greatest thing ever. except I think I say that about something every few days now. but still.

it was funny, today I said I felt pretty, and that I hadn't felt that way in a while, and kevin remarked that I had gotten out of the east coast, and now the east coast was getting out of me. I liked that. I also like having yelled things out at big, superstar, crazy famous boys in bands, and having them laugh because they heard me. those two things + kristin's just general existence, really = my totally made day. week. life.

I'm slurring my speech. I know, it's cute, but I have to go. I can't even sit up anymore.

this is victoria's reason for getting out of bed in the morning.

xx
VVB