Some treasures from the P-Patch’s last harvest of the year. Beautiful beans, non?

Everyone jokes that summer in Seattle officially starts July 5th. This year that’s definitely the case. Fourth of July was 50 degrees and rain. Yesterday was 80 degrees and those deep, clear blue skies with daylight still streaming through the windows at ten o’clock pm. It’s feast or famine in the Pacific Northwest.

Last night was my first Duck Dodge of the season, enjoyed from a picnic blanket on the top of Kite Hill at Gasworks Park. This sailboat race with the silly name takes place weekly on Lake Union from June to October.

It’s pretty amazing to see that many boats on such a tiny lake with that much beer. A tiger-striped boat whipped past a large boat with sharkskin sails and the deckhands yelled out, “We’re faster!” The losing boat replied, “Yeah, but we’re drunker!”

When I lived on the houseboat, one of the boats in the marina participated in the Duck Dodge regularly. You could tell which boats along the waterfront have done well by the number of ducks on their bow. Despite the captain’s affinity for local microbrews, the sailboat boasted a long row of ducks. I’d watch them head out on Tuesday nights amid quite a commotion. Sometimes they’d swing by the dock to pick up stragglers and it was always an entertaining event. I mean they’d literally swing by, without stopping. The fully inebriated folks would lean over the rail and pull the semi-inebriated folks onboard. Sometimes successfully.

I’m surprised there are so few catastrophes. Last night there was a yelp and a crunch as two newbies collided. Later I looked out on the lake to see one small sailboat bottom-up with a fellow standing up on the keel. I promptly had a Luis moment where I realized the origin of the pharse keel over. Other than that, no mishaps to write home about. Just spinnakers billowing in the sunshine and kites overhead vying for airspace, tangled in the gentle wind.

On nights like last night, I miss living aboard. July and August are an easy sell. It’s November and January that got me.

And I’m sure Nevadelia doesn’t miss the fireworks launched from 20 yards away while living on the S.S. Octopus of Looooove. She spent this Fourth of July slightly drugged in the closet on Capitol Hill while we enjoyed the extended pyrotechnic display safely from a quiet roofdeck on Eastlake.

It’s hard to be indoors when the weather finally shifts like this. I want to soak it all up and save some for the dark winter months. I guess it just makes me enjoy all the more when it’s here.

Some kind of crazy, forced Zen.

(click the photos for larger versions.)

Kite flying at Gasworks.

Spring is crazy. There’s an electricity in the air. I can feel it humming in my bones. The trees are singing. Storms sneak up on the horizon and explode the sky with unexpected rainbows.

I’ve been walking, taking it all in. Spongy moss bed beneath my feet on Summit. Heavy sweet smell of Lilacs on Roy – coupled with the unmistakable scent of dark roast coffee grounds and soil. Fresh tilled earth, acidified by Starbucks.

I spent most of Saturday at my (still unnamed) workspace in Frellard. Had a few minor epiphanies. I’ve been getting bogged down in the business part of “doing business,” paralyzed with little energy for doing.

I keep forgetting that I know how to write. That maybe I’ve gotten the hang of it by now. I’m so easily pulled into the quicksand world of metrics, ruberics, stats and charts – dense sand closing over my head, hands useless at my sides. Drowning in Excel spreadsheets.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with writing for money. I believe all artists should be compensated fairly for their creative efforts – enough that they don’t have to think about money and they’re free to create. But it’s a tricky tango – you have to write as though you don’t care whether or not you’re getting paid. As soon as the focus turns to finance, the creative process breaks down. It’s bizarre and frustrating for me. Like not being able to look at the sun during a solar eclipse.

Monetization is slippery. And necessary. And hopefully the key to further creative productivity. You just have to pretend it’s not so you can make some art.

Feeling totally overwhelmed by aforementioned metrics, ruberics, stats and charts, I slammed my notebook closed, gazing out the window of my workspace at the trees thickly unfurling their spring leaves. (Do you prefer furling or unfurling? I tend to be an unfurler, but a good rainy Sunday furl is fabulous once in awhile.) I stared out that window until my eyes unfocused, listening to Django Reinhardt, drinking pomegranate iced tea slowly through a straw.

Wasn’t there a time when I knew how to write? When I was in love with words, when my heart tripped up over a perfect string of adjectives, laced together with bailing twine, sealed with a kiss?

Rocking back on my retro chrome and daisy-vinyl chair, I suddenly felt gravity take over and the ground rushed up to meet me. I fell backward but was stopped by the bookcase behind me, which smacked me broadly across the back of the head. The bookcase that’s lined top to bottom with my writing in its various forms. A single notebook dislodged and fell into my lap. Like Newton’s apple from the tree.

I righted my chair, dusted myself off, and began to read.

Winter 2003. My heart was torn open on those pages; plagued with insomnia, I prowled the city streets at night. I wrote. About magenta lights on snow, about the Manhattan skyline in a black and white photo sunrise. About New Orleans and the sweet music of the streets. About the deep blue of my room. About Seattle – a city I’d yet to meet.

The words were tangled up and spread out, thrown like stars across a black sky. I read my words and it felt like home. I was re-reading some of these entries for the first time.

All of it reminded me of how different it feels to write without thinking about the money. Like dancing when nobody’s watching. Like Jonathan Livingston Seagull rejoicing in his own winged flight, I played on the page. My script was loose and comfortable; it fit. Barefoot and intimate with my words.

I realized how essential walking is to my writing. Every heart-stopping phrase came on the heels of an urgent journey on foot. Down cobblestone streets, moss-lined avenues, through subway stations, across the Commons. Down Newbury past Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield, Gloucester, Hereford. Bricks slick with ice, the cork track at Tufts similar to the spongy feeling of walking on thick moss in Capitol Hill.

I reloaded my iPod this morning and walked to work, chunky headphones on – I took the scenic route. The fresh air and sights are like brainfood. My words require them.

If I walk long enough, I’ll eventually lose sight of the money. I’ll fall in love with the words. The fear will dissipate like a thin mist.

And I’ll achieve clarity – that beautiful pause between inspiration and desire.

I’m heading there now.

The view of the Japanese Garden from the trail made me feel pretty good about our decision; there were lots more blooming cherry trees on our street in Capitol Hill than at the Garden.

And the trail wanderings made for more interesting photos, I think.

“Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.”
~ Jessamyn West

It’s a cruel truth that as a creative person, the more productive I am, the more isolated I become. Writing is a solitary undertaking, and I’ve yet to find a way around that fact. I often become, as West says, “slightly savage.” Deprived of sunlight and sleep, you can do away with the “slightly.”

Making Art Things (the official name for any of my myriad creative undertakings) can be slightly less ostracizing. My various dabblings, from paper-clay flowers to mixed media collages, do not require solitude. One can at least talk and operate a hot glue gun simultaneously, given adequate safety gear and enough caffeine.

In early December, I headed over to Joni‘s house to make holiday cards en masse. We sat at her big oak dining room table, a sea of paper, paints, rubber stamps, punches and stickers spread out before us. The 70′s funk Christmas CD she found was playing as we cut, pasted and adorned our individual cards.

I like the idea of holiday cards in the abstract, much like I enjoy thinking about camping. It would be nice to do, just not today. Or like running, which I never enjoy, but always enjoy having done.

But making cards with others, chatting over espresso and sparkly brush pens, was a whole different experience. I loved it. And as a bonus, everything I owned was covered in glitter for the next week. I even found some on my cat, who was not in attendance that day. It was like finding sand in your shoe a week after a trip to the beach.

So imagine my delight when my friend Kerry let me in on a little secret called Crafterday. I could barely contain myself.

Like Joni, Kerry makes mixed media Art Things. Her artwork is amazing, and one of the best housewarming gifts I ever received is a two-part canvas hanging on my wall.

The last two Crafterdays I attended involved field trips, and I have to admit, those are my favorite kind. Saturday we went to JoAnn Fabrics in Bremerton after an adventurous jaunt on the ferry. I was totally overwhelmed with the sheer volume of art supplies there. And they were having a half-off sale on all their paper crafts – i.e. the stuff we came to buy. I tried to control myself and was marginally successful. I got this behemoth book of cardstock called “Pocketful of Posies.” It’s all juicy floral patterns embossed with – brace yourself – glitter!

After our field trip we went to Adria’s and indulged in her innumerable rubber stamp treasures, paper craft books and a waist-high stack of patterned paper.

My favorite part of the whole Crafterday experience is the talking, listening, and bonding that comes through sharing time, space and art. There’s magical alchemy in mixing three women together in a kitchen over crafts. It reminds me of the long tradition of sewing circles, the modern day version of which I’ve heard called “Stitch and Bitch.

I’m realizing how important it is to connect with other creatives in face time. After countless hours submerged in my digital world, population: 1, the warmth of voices and comfort of friends reminds me what I’m really a part of.

As I exited the elevator at the top, I passed an office with enormous glass doors. I could see right through the office and out the floor-to-ceiling windows cradling this executive’s suite. I saw it out of the corner of my eye, and did a physical double-take when I realized the shaft of white I saw was the Space Needle. I backed up three steps and stood there, mouth agape.

The enormous windows framed the Space Needle perfectly and the office was the same height, so level with the observation deck. It was unreal. It seriously looked like a fake picture.

There was the guy with his desk abutting the window, talking on the phone. On a bright Tuesday, sun streaming in onto the floor of his office, the Space Needle sparkling like some real estate ad in Architectural Digest.

And I wondered – when this guy walked into that office on the day he was hired, did he say, “Okay. NOW I’ve arrived”? Was that a watermark morning for him? Such a lush and tangible proof of accomplishment?

I keep wondering what my moment will be. If I’ll have one of those moments. If it will come slowly, if it will sneak up on me while I’m busy doing dishes or writing another rough draft.

Or if I, too, will be handed the keys to something so undeniably full and bright. Unlocking the door to some proverbial room to discover the Space Needle wrapped up just for me.