Another obscenely long entree. Sorry.
I have a blue notebook that I write so many things in. It's got stray chemistry notes, weird drawings from an especially entertaining dinner with people I didn't know, shopping lists, half a letter to my sister, and journal-type pages between these.
This is one of those journal-type entrees I wrote about a month ago:
He probably thinks I'm stealing things. I look and feel like a hobo- I shouldn't have put my hobo gloves back on after using their toilet. I swear, I was only pulling out my pen and notebook! Not sneaking in to steal bulk candy (and leftover hummus and pita? oops, should've kept the receipt for our snack). I've thought it before- this place is strangely inspirational for writing; curry recipes, complicated mathematical calculations, and now, stories and thoughts that appear and grow but must be written down or they disappear.
There is an old woman sitting at the same table tonight as yesterday. She has pink surrounding her, a pink shirt and a pink jacket draped over her shopping cart. Her nose is pink. She's hunched over the table, eating a yogurt with a broken plastic spoon and biting a molasses cookie like it's four inches thick- carefully but forcefully. It takes all her strength. She has various bottles of pills sitting in a semicircle in front of her. You couldn't make this shit up-- or could you?
We wanted to find a bead store so Coco could bring beads to Heather tomorrow, though by the time we finally got up from our nap we were fairly certain the store would be closed for the evening. It is a Thursday after all.
We boarded a spaceship and headed down from our mountain perch, toward town anyway. We're good at finding adventure. After walking around a little bit, we realized that we would most likely be home late and would therefore appreciate a snack before we continued into the unknown.
(Bellingham must be slightly French. I noticed that there are quite a few French radio stations, Coco has had numerous things remind her of Bordeaux- a soft serve ice cream sign with 24 Delicious Flavors!, aelouette dip, the tower we climbed, French conversations on the bathroom stall, and we found a barret while wander the streets this evening.)
Soft serve sounded incredible, even vegan-streak breaking, just to feel the nostalgia. Unfortunately, the shop was closed (as was the bead store) so we went to Haggen to purchase a snack. Hummus and pita, no bag, no receipt, free olives.
We ended up back on the train tracks, crossing a short railroad bridge, then sitting down at the end of an empty dock jutting into the bay. The water was dark and smooth, very inviting but very cold. We kicked our naked feet. We shared stories of lovable teachers while snacking on the cheaper but better food.
A passenger train whistled loudly. Echoing on the other side of the bay, a ghost train sang back. A squat man with dark features carried a wire box down the dock. He prepared in silence, not even responding to my curious "hello". He tied bright yellow nylon rope to the cage, then threw it into the bay.
"Crabs?" I asked, "Are you catching crabs?"
"Oh, yes, crab" he quickly answered, a shy, accented voice.
"How long will that be in there?"
"About two hours, maybe longer" He walked back up the dock, leaving us smiling.
After talking a while longer and listening to the masts clink in the wind, we started walking back along the tracks. I told of Carrot- pretty much everything I could think of her, including an almost word-for-word re-telling of her fiction attempt and story of seeing her father. I understood the Land Built Entirely Of Stone Mined From The Hills Of Unreasonable Expectations. Maybe I'll be a hobo some day. I survived living out of my backpack, pretty much homeless, this summer but met amazing people and had a great time.
We had to sit away from the tracks at one point so I could answer Claire's text message. I write detailed, properly spelled and punctuated text messages. This one was taking a while because it was supposed to be in a British accent. We climbed behind a pillar under a little bridge, right off the tracks. Sitting behind there, I eventually finished the text message, but we could hear a train coming so we stayed in out small but safe place.
--I didn't finish writing because when I got to this part, I didn't know how to word it properly. I still don't know how to portray the feeling of sitting three feet from a speeding freight train. Protected only by a wooden pillar holding up the bridge we were sitting under. In the dark, simultaneously wanting to squeeze my eyes tight to keep out the screeching and roaring pounding my head, and wide open to watch the beast pass right before our eyes. It was exhilarating and terrifying and loud and absolutely one of the most amazing experiences I've had watching a train.
This is one of those journal-type entrees I wrote about a month ago:
He probably thinks I'm stealing things. I look and feel like a hobo- I shouldn't have put my hobo gloves back on after using their toilet. I swear, I was only pulling out my pen and notebook! Not sneaking in to steal bulk candy (and leftover hummus and pita? oops, should've kept the receipt for our snack). I've thought it before- this place is strangely inspirational for writing; curry recipes, complicated mathematical calculations, and now, stories and thoughts that appear and grow but must be written down or they disappear.
There is an old woman sitting at the same table tonight as yesterday. She has pink surrounding her, a pink shirt and a pink jacket draped over her shopping cart. Her nose is pink. She's hunched over the table, eating a yogurt with a broken plastic spoon and biting a molasses cookie like it's four inches thick- carefully but forcefully. It takes all her strength. She has various bottles of pills sitting in a semicircle in front of her. You couldn't make this shit up-- or could you?
We wanted to find a bead store so Coco could bring beads to Heather tomorrow, though by the time we finally got up from our nap we were fairly certain the store would be closed for the evening. It is a Thursday after all.
We boarded a spaceship and headed down from our mountain perch, toward town anyway. We're good at finding adventure. After walking around a little bit, we realized that we would most likely be home late and would therefore appreciate a snack before we continued into the unknown.
(Bellingham must be slightly French. I noticed that there are quite a few French radio stations, Coco has had numerous things remind her of Bordeaux- a soft serve ice cream sign with 24 Delicious Flavors!, aelouette dip, the tower we climbed, French conversations on the bathroom stall, and we found a barret while wander the streets this evening.)
Soft serve sounded incredible, even vegan-streak breaking, just to feel the nostalgia. Unfortunately, the shop was closed (as was the bead store) so we went to Haggen to purchase a snack. Hummus and pita, no bag, no receipt, free olives.
We ended up back on the train tracks, crossing a short railroad bridge, then sitting down at the end of an empty dock jutting into the bay. The water was dark and smooth, very inviting but very cold. We kicked our naked feet. We shared stories of lovable teachers while snacking on the cheaper but better food.
A passenger train whistled loudly. Echoing on the other side of the bay, a ghost train sang back. A squat man with dark features carried a wire box down the dock. He prepared in silence, not even responding to my curious "hello". He tied bright yellow nylon rope to the cage, then threw it into the bay.
"Crabs?" I asked, "Are you catching crabs?"
"Oh, yes, crab" he quickly answered, a shy, accented voice.
"How long will that be in there?"
"About two hours, maybe longer" He walked back up the dock, leaving us smiling.
After talking a while longer and listening to the masts clink in the wind, we started walking back along the tracks. I told of Carrot- pretty much everything I could think of her, including an almost word-for-word re-telling of her fiction attempt and story of seeing her father. I understood the Land Built Entirely Of Stone Mined From The Hills Of Unreasonable Expectations. Maybe I'll be a hobo some day. I survived living out of my backpack, pretty much homeless, this summer but met amazing people and had a great time.
We had to sit away from the tracks at one point so I could answer Claire's text message. I write detailed, properly spelled and punctuated text messages. This one was taking a while because it was supposed to be in a British accent. We climbed behind a pillar under a little bridge, right off the tracks. Sitting behind there, I eventually finished the text message, but we could hear a train coming so we stayed in out small but safe place.
--I didn't finish writing because when I got to this part, I didn't know how to word it properly. I still don't know how to portray the feeling of sitting three feet from a speeding freight train. Protected only by a wooden pillar holding up the bridge we were sitting under. In the dark, simultaneously wanting to squeeze my eyes tight to keep out the screeching and roaring pounding my head, and wide open to watch the beast pass right before our eyes. It was exhilarating and terrifying and loud and absolutely one of the most amazing experiences I've had watching a train.