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juushikaI'm writing from a hotel lobby—sitting beside a fireplace with my laptop and a book, giving room service a chance to clean my room. I smell like The Seekim (cacao absolute, hay, black pepper, patchouli, and incense ash), a warm dark smoky smooth deep chocolate. They're playing innocuous soft jazz over the sound of background chatter. Outside there's mist and heavy sprinkles, humid and wet in turns, a thick but almost crystalline gray, weather like quartz. Express is at work, but should be done about dinner, and then we may eat the quiche I cooked and we'll probably hack more Pokémon and attempt to stream more Initial D over internet that feels as ancient as this historic hotel.
It's good.
When Dee gave me a lift into downtown yesterday, we left at dusk; we went up through St. Johns, over the St. Johns bridge, and down US-30—our secret route into downtown and Beaverton, with less traffic and beautiful sights. Coming onto the arc of the bridge, the blue fog as so dense that it nearly swallowed the spires; as we drove across the far side came into view, the rising hill of Linnton Park, dark green Douglas Fir shot through with saffron Bigleaf Maple that glowed in the dimming light. Coming up the hill where US-30 merges onto 1-405, the city did the same: blue-stained concrete buildings shrouded in fog, pieced by and shining with a thousand amber lights.
Express is Los Angeles-born and is surviving the cold and wet—we went wandering last night once we finally here and settled, walked down to Pioneer Square and saw the light-wrapped trees that decorated the streets from here to there; this morning we went out for morning coffee and to find his office in that deep fog-cum-heavy sprinkles. He's surviving it, wrapped in his layers and waterproof jacket, but I'm reminded how much I love the land where I live. Autumn was slow in coming this year, the trees were reluctant to turn, but now we have golden leaves against rained-darkened branches, and a blue haze to wrap it like a gift, and the cold is bracing and the wet tangles in my hair, and I could live elsewhere—Sweden, England, Scotland, I remember them all fondly and long to go back—but right now I am just so happy to live here, and to have these days to show off my city: my city where, yes, you have to love the rain—but if you do it sparkles with it, and it is so beautiful.
It's good.
When Dee gave me a lift into downtown yesterday, we left at dusk; we went up through St. Johns, over the St. Johns bridge, and down US-30—our secret route into downtown and Beaverton, with less traffic and beautiful sights. Coming onto the arc of the bridge, the blue fog as so dense that it nearly swallowed the spires; as we drove across the far side came into view, the rising hill of Linnton Park, dark green Douglas Fir shot through with saffron Bigleaf Maple that glowed in the dimming light. Coming up the hill where US-30 merges onto 1-405, the city did the same: blue-stained concrete buildings shrouded in fog, pieced by and shining with a thousand amber lights.
Express is Los Angeles-born and is surviving the cold and wet—we went wandering last night once we finally here and settled, walked down to Pioneer Square and saw the light-wrapped trees that decorated the streets from here to there; this morning we went out for morning coffee and to find his office in that deep fog-cum-heavy sprinkles. He's surviving it, wrapped in his layers and waterproof jacket, but I'm reminded how much I love the land where I live. Autumn was slow in coming this year, the trees were reluctant to turn, but now we have golden leaves against rained-darkened branches, and a blue haze to wrap it like a gift, and the cold is bracing and the wet tangles in my hair, and I could live elsewhere—Sweden, England, Scotland, I remember them all fondly and long to go back—but right now I am just so happy to live here, and to have these days to show off my city: my city where, yes, you have to love the rain—but if you do it sparkles with it, and it is so beautiful.
