Blog it out. It's always the answer, to ____ it out. Blog it out, hug it out, fuck it out. Whatever it takes.
So obvs I'm not in Chicago anymore, but back behind the desk in Fremont. Where I was working on a grant with my boss until about 3:00 this morning, until I left, napped, showered, grabbed a quad, and returned, to find him in the same clothes, in the same spot. Bleary-eyed and delirious.
The grant's not done, but it should be sometime tonight when he gets off the plane. I've done as much as I can on it, and now it's time to catch up on everything I haven't done for the last few days because of it. Work-wise, I mean, but first - well, first I'm going to blog it out.
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you could say that ray lamontagne is the reason I moved to seattle. I mean, of course, everything circles back to kristin, and her love of seattle, and peering sideways at the screen in google maps trying to see what the streets of capitol hill looked like all those years ago (because, really, it's been years now. not a lot, but still. enough.) and kristin being the one who turned me on to all things west-y and KEXP-y, obviously, she gets the credit. but if she's the given in the proof, the base, if you will - then the moment on the radio with ray was an "a-ha!" in the formula that she layed out for me to decipher.
maybe I'm just waxing poetic because of the last few weeks, or because I got an email yesterday talking about the "first time ever" set of solo shows that ray is doing after a tour with some big orchestra. of course, he's not coming through seattle, but I'm tempted to talk my way into covering one of the california shows. I'd do if it I wasn't so shit-broke from my big chicago/austin excursions. then again, the wrens and frames will never disappoint, but I don't know if much can top things ray lamontagne-wise than being four feet away from him on the stage at the paradise in 2004, or meeting him after the show at the avalon with the girl he fell for that didn't fall for him -- all slighter than I thought he'd be, all bearded before the big beard explosion of 2008, all quiet and soft-spoken and unaccustomed-seeming to what was going on around him. it would be bliss, and I wouldn't knock it if I could manage it somehow - but I literally have about twelve dollars to get me through until next saturday, not counting needing to get cat food like, yesterday.
I just checked. eleven dollars, forty-one cents, a roll of quarters for laundry, and a few nights of perfection under my belt to make up for it. I'd do it all over again and pay double, were it the only option.
so yeah... ray. that day in my office, KEXP printout posters masking-taped to the brick wall that I can still feel the texture of under my fingertips. my little computer speakers, kristin through the internets, broken away from a marriage that never was, bleeding all over the keyboard. hearing the meadowlands for the first time in the parking lot outside, rain on the windshield, grey day, lyrics under my skin and into my veins. a chance to make up for the things I missed and turned down and turned away from. and then defeat, and then learning, and then another chance now, the way my life is now, better than it's ever been. a do-over for the do-over, perfect, not wanting.
my table is wobbly and there's the eleven dollar thing, and there tends to be baby spiders in the corners when I move things no matter how much I clean, but it's my place. it'll get better. there's four mismatched gallons of paint in my backseat, waiting to be released; a coffeepot I need to clean, a kitchen floor that needs covering, a bathroom that needs remodeling. crayola-blue that I don't know where to put, the ceiling maybe, or the back of a door. it's a half-assembled hippie love den that's happened from the kindness of strangers, with the exception of a piece here and there and a few of the things I managed not to leave behind. I've gotten my hair down to a science, there's a big to-do list (looming, but no longer does it ruin my day-to-day), I'm immune to caffeine, and I'll have my first visitors at the end of the month circa jon and desirea coming to sleep on my evolved flip-and-fuck of a couch.
people stopping by my desk. "did you hear sean didn't go home last night?" me: "dude. I barely went home last night." I wish the story were more exciting, but it's not. it's kind of a pain, really.
all these little moments where I'm bursting at the seams, doing stuff like walking to my car or getting ready to go out. and I'm not talking about the epic stuff, like getting to meet chris walla and glen hansard - those things are obviously flooring, I'm just glad I can manage to not barf when shit like that happens - I'm talking about driving on the highway, or being in the bulk section of qfc, or catching myself in the mirror and realizing how much I actually look like myself. my outsides and insides are fast approaching tweequilibrium. and it's awesome. then add in the moments backstage and bars in austin and getting to shake hands with rockstars - and it's a wonder I don't explode.
I don't ever remember being this busy this consistently. with like, stuff.
everyone is beautiful and sun-kissed and we got blasted by the sun and the heat for days and days and days, and now it's back to a cool grey chill, high of 75 today, I'm in long sleeves but without tights under my dress. in august. there's shows upon shows upon shows, the barbeque and the mural and the tattoo expo this weekend and the doe bay fest and maybe, just maybe, a trip to back to austin to hit some ACL in rOctober.
what was I talking about? right. ray. an email from his mailing list, vaulting me back to gritty stages and brick walls and shitty speakers and the bare-ing of souls. circled back to the point where I thought I had all this stuff to say, and it's really not much at all, and it's all shit that I've said before. perhaps I should post some photos and get back to work.
lovelies. you're lovely. every last one of you.
hearts,
victoria
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