intuition and dots.dots.dots....

i decided to go out and write (not this - definitely something more substantial and literary, i’m sure) and needed to figure out what to eat, which kind of meant i had to figure out what restaurant i would go to since there is no food in my house (that’s only a small lie - there is a block of cheese in my house. . . a house without cheese is a not a home). and what happened next commanded me to write to you about it.

i’m not sure what told me that this would be the right place… intuition, probably, since it’s what i studied yesterday - intuition. yes. that. or the dots. they lead me there. dots are sometimes hard to follow, but sometimes, when you are really paying attention, the dots - they appear like a roadmap to your next dot. your next destination. your next destiny.

 so i ended up here, bleu grotto. it’s sort of my first time, but not really my first time. bleu, I remember, from when it was on the corner of broadway and john, where the american apparel currently resides. it was a place i had gone with alistair. i remember very clearly two things. i liked the place because a) it had hidy holes made of small spaces and thick dreamy drapes and b) they had a four cheese mac & cheese on the menu. (did i mention the cheese thing i have?) i don’t think alistair and i had gone there more than three times before we moved to hawaii. so, when i returned to seattle 8 years ago, and i saw that it had closed and then subsequently opened again (blah blah blah), . . . the point is that i’d been here maybe three times in the last four years and likely all three of them occurred in the first two years.

it was kind of amazing when i arrived. and it’s continuing its awesomeness. i walked in and passed by a short hallway of hidy holes all covered in those drapes and . . . privateness. intimate. interesting. dot.

but they were all taken. dot.

so i stopped in front the bar. i guess i was standing there for a moment, looking lost, because two men started talking to me. the bartender (hard not to listen to his accent) and the main waiter who is likely the nicest waiter (and likely regular person nice) i have ever encountered. it soon became clear why they started talking to me after my dazed and confused look. the waiter asked, “are you. . .(i think he was waiting for me to fill in the name) . . .here for the reservation.” 

“nope, just me. i’m here to write.”

“well, take anywhere you like. hey that hallway bit back there looks like a good secluded spot. you should take that.” (did he know that’s what i require? most definitely a dot)

i walk to the back and there are two tables in this “hallway” (which i think actually is just an ante room to the staircase and the kitchen.). The small one is high and has two stools and is abutted up to this bookshelf with old looking books in it (seriously?? could the universe tone it down a bit?). the other one is a long(ish) table with no less than 6 chairs. it’s huge. i sit at the small table.

the menu. . . it’s complicated. there is something to be said for brevity and descriptive three word menu items that describe for to a tee.  after seeing this menu, i am convinced succinct menu writing is an art to be appreciated. this menu has beer, wine, liquor, two pages of cocktails, sides, starters (which suspiciously look like sides), salads (this is where it gets REAL descriptive. . . paragraphs), sandwiches, pasta (which is mostly gluten free - that’s a thing for pasta now? in restaurants?), at this point i actually don’t know what is left because the effort to read the menu items has become a book-like endeavor. . . needless to say i stopped there and didn’t read much more. . .too much work. 

wait - there is more. . . they also give you ANOTHER menu. which is more dense than the last half of the actual menu. one side has drinks. . . very detailed drinks. the other side has entire books separated into columns that have headlines screaming the smallness of their plating. . . if they were small, why wouldn’t the description be smaller? but alas . . .i didn’t even read that one. the dense menu makes no difference what so ever, thought. . . the people here rule. it also didn’t matter that i didn’t finish reading the menu because the waiter came back.

“what? oh - you took that one? i was thinking you would take this one.” gesturing to the large table with no less than 6 chairs. the avoided table.

“oh? well, i didn’t want to take up a table for 6 people. i don’t need to take up that much space.”

“no. you need this space. you need the space to write. i think you need to take this place. it’s a wednesday. i think you should take this spot.” (his insistence was. . . validating….in a weird…good way)

“ok. . . “ 

at this point, i’m ducking my head and assuming the ‘i’m sorry’ posture and affect (blergh). and i move all my stuff over to the bigger place. i put my bag holding the precious on one seat, take out the precious and put her in front of the next seat and then waiter brings me the beer and it goes in front of the third spot.

“now see? doesn’t that feel more like it?”

 dude - i am SPREAD OUT. and they are treating me like hemingway. we joke about me using (or not using) the outlet and how apple are liars (in the affectionate, ‘yes, i’m an apple fan person too but we hate ourselves for being fans’). hemingway. i am hemingway (except for that misogyny stuff. . . ).

due to so much work to look at the menu, i take a chance and ask the waiter what i should have.

“are you a vegetarian?” you can only barely tell there is an underlying . . . contempt . . . (which might be too strong a word - but it was funny) for the vegetarian.

“no. i’m a “not anything except for raw onions.”

“yeah, i don’t like those much either. or cooked ones. . . “ he stares off into space.

“so, what should i get?”

“how hungry are you?”

i have not eaten anything today and it’s 7pm. i try to look for words to explain that while i am hungry i probably can’t eat very much and i just give up in between my words.

“i’m starving.” and i am. terribly.

i am recommended the meatball sandwich. very very recommended this meatball sandwich. i am not to have this sandwich due to the direct orders to not eat nightshades. nightshades? they are inflammatory which is bad for the swollen crap in my neck causing all this stupid pain. but it’s very recommended. so i order it.

and i order the kilt lifter which comes in a frosty glass.

i open the precious. i don’t go immediately to the internet, which is what i would do normally. i want to log onto the blog and start a blog post. instead, i open scrivener. which is weird. it’s the place i write my stories and work on my book and the place i write things i can’t tell you about. the first 3 seconds of entering blue grotto and following 10 minutes convince me that i can only write this accounting of dots. dots. dots. (did you read that blog posting that i just retweeted? no? well, i’ll wait.)

the meatball sandwich comes (with a side of chips and salsa). it is very good. it has nightshades. it’s still good. i will not feel guilty.

i order another beer. the waiter comes to my table with another frosty glass AND a bottle of beer that’s he’s pouring into it. i am embarrassed that he’s done this. he doesn’t need to do that for me. i am uncomplicated and the bottle would do me just fine. i share with the waiter my views of his never having to do that again.

“but ‘frosty’ is so good.” he gestures to the beautifully frosted and impossibly cold beer. i thought it was an on tap beer. . . 

“yeah, but that’s more work than necessary. . . really.”

“it’s a beer, dude. i promise, not that much work.”

he’s right. probably about both things, but mostly the “is so good” part. it tastes good and is very cold.

i write more.

he comes back and takes the bottle away.

“can i get you anything right now?”

“will my stuff be ok if i smoke a cigarette?”

“oh, well, i’m going to sell your computer. . . of course it’s fine.” he goes on to tell me about a patron that comes once a month, sits at this table, writes (or something on a laptop), gets the black bean burger and sometimes a strongbow, though one time he got a gin and tonic. he is here for hours. it’s where they put those of us that want to be alone and do whatever it is we do on these laptops in public places. places we need to be alone but not really alone. . .dots - so many dots.

i feel stupid for being worried and then thank him. i put my coat on, look for my cigarettes and then realize i need to have fire. i think i remember leaving a lighter in the front pocket of my bag. i did not leave one there. or anywhere else in my bag. or in my jeans. or in my coat. so, i take a very slow stroll to the front of the grotto to get to the door - desperately searching for matches. i get to the end of the bar and the waiter is there talking with another patron. as i pass by him (hoping beyond hope there will be another smoker outside) he hands me, in one smooth motion, the candle lighter. 

dots.dots.dots.

i am clearly meant to be here. hi universe. i see you. and i see you see me.

the waiter comes back and asks me if he should take away the chips and salsa. i confide in him that i can’t eat it because of the tomatoes. and even though the meatball sandwich had tomatoes, i had to get it because it was so recommended.

“you aren’t gonna die are you? i can’t have that on my conscious, man.”

“no. . . i just can’t have nightshades.” 

a conversation ensues about how potatoes are inexplicably and terribly included in this list. he takes away the salsa (sad face).

i like it here. they have hidy holes. they are angels or guides or the chorus in my greek tragedy.

and the music makes me happy. it’s a random assemblage . . .

toto’s hold the line is a song i have heard a million times, but didn’t know a) that it was by toto or b) that it was called hold the line. i’m pretty sure i have been singing some other words to it’s title. . .

kc and the sunshine band come on with shake your booty. how can you not want to dance to that shit?

the whole time, i’m writing. . . and these other songs play becoming the soundtrack to these words.

hey there delilah - Plain White T’s

demons - Imagine Dragons

that’s the way of the world - Earth Wind & Fire

precious little diamond - Fox the Fox

shake your body (down to the ground) - The Jacksons

the way you make me feel - michael jackson

the sweetest taboo - sade

you give good love - whitney houston

i’m every woman - Chaka Khan

love remains the same - Gavin Rossdale

santeria - Sublime

we’re going to be friends - Jack Johnson

apologize - Timbaland Feat. OneRepublic

she will be loved - Maroon 5

fool in the rain - Led Zepplin

simple man - Lynyrd Skynyrd

i said i would only write until i ran out of battery. that was an hour and a half ago and i have only used 25% of my battery. i feel like i should have a point to all of this. and i guess there is and there isn’t. the “isn’t” part is that it’s just a slice of my life. an account of an evening i decided to go out. in and of itself, it is not amazing or ground breaking or even interesting. but the “is” part is because it’s just another way i see dots connecting. dots. dots. dots.

they connect constantly. and if you are open to it, you connect with them, too. i feel like i was meant to be here tonight. i was meant to have read @chuckwendig ’s blog telling me to shut up and write (over and over and over, in case i missed the point, because, seriously, shut the fuck up and write). i was meant to have seen @totemka’s blog posting about dots.dots.dots. i was meant to walk into this place and meet these people and hear this music. it makes things feel a little right with my world. there aren’t a lot of days things feel right with the world, lately. (also, that was 2000 words. more words in one sitting than in the last 10 sittings).

and my battery has run out. not the computer one. . . the phone one. i was automatically shazaming all the songs. so, i guess i’ll have to get my check and go home. 

i think that’s ok.

thank you bleu grotto. thank you waiter. i will ask your name when i leave because i will come back (it’s walter - fuck yeah - that’s a cool ass name). you let me be alone without really being alone.

it’s a good night.

i miss good nights. kind of a good reminder, this night.

adventures during the search for signs of intelligent life in the universe

i got goose bumps today. they came with a heavy side of joy and tears.

i folded six paper cranes, attached them to articulating straws and wrapped them into a bouquet. i put them in my purse, got in the car, started my audiobook and drove to downtown olympia where the State Theater of Harlequin Productions resides and where i would see The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe. 

the few blocks that surround the old movie theater turned production house is full of charm with its old record store, small diner cafes, and vintage clothing shops. walking into the theater you are met with kind people taking your tickets and letting you know where everything is while you are surrounded by red velvet. 

i took a picture of the program, updated my status, turned off my phone to see what adventure awaited me. 

i had a seat in the front row. to my left, was a season ticket holder who told me the history of Harlequin Productions and how they had started out in the black box of another theater until they could buy the one we were now seated in. she asked me where i was from and upon learning i had travelled from seattle, listening to my audiobook, she asked me, "what is the book about?" as i told you this week, i'm listening to Valis. i replied, "about a crazy person." she blew out air, responding, "well, that seems depressing." to which i laughed because, yes, it is a bit depressing.

the couple to my right complimented me on my converse shoes and how exciting it had been to have a pair "back in the day." they joked with me about whether or not they were near intelligent life, which i, of course denied, letting them know the search would continue should it have stopped by me first. they laughed and asked me what i did and i told them about my nerd herding in seattle and aspirations on being a writer.  

we wound ourselves into talk of the seahawks which turned into being part of the fan base as sort of a connection and how being part of the connection of any audience is part of the experience; even here, the theater we were about to see. the woman specifically said, it's all about "synchronicity." a term i have, of late, become very obsessive about. and is about to become acutely present. the man turned to me and said, "this may sound strange, but we are writers, too."

when i asked, he told me he has published some humorous short stories. he asked what i wrote, i told him i had published a short story, as well. he asked me what it was about. i told them it was a bit of a fantasy story, but really it was a fictionalized story about how i moved through the grieving process. when i asked what she wrote, she told me, she too, is writing a story about a grieving process. i asked him for the name of his book, and he wrote it down for me, right as the lights were going down for the show.

the show. the show was brilliant. perfect. moving. i am not normally a reviewer of shows and i know the convention is to tell you something about what the show is about and then critique it. i won't tell you what the show is about. i want you to trust me. go and see it - read what i have written above about my pre-show experience, and then experience this show. it was pure synchronicity for me. 

the part of the convention of which i will conform is the critique part. as a stage manager over the last 24 years, i often have a difficult time watching any show without noticing all of the technical elements as separate from the acting and most definitely separate from the writing. but in this case, everything worked together. a concept i've mostly forgotten. 

Terri Weagant's delivery of this material was funny, quirky, compelling, intense and athletic. she lived each moment. she can go from a midwestern housewife to an angsty teenager like flipping a switch; from prostitute to pondering homeless woman like water running over two well worn stones. The subtly with which she brings the opening character around through the story is delicate but not so quiet that you miss the "ah ha" moment (that actually happened out loud in the audience). she can bring you to the verge of tears but then pull you back while you wipe your cheek, unsure about whether the wetness is due to laughter or sadness.

the combination of sound design by Jesse McNeece and lighting design by Amy Chisman brings both humor and wonder as Terri flies between time and space.  My favorites here are the channels changing which is reminiscent of The Twilight Zone (a favorite of mine), the appearance of "space chums"(i don't want to give too much away here), and the sound that took me from one time to another that i can only equate to a good drum line - but that's not even right. but it was cool. and lastly, the stars. . .and honestly, that part was even cooler than i can explain because of the set design by Mark Bujeaud. He made a set that seemed too simple but was designed to be put together like the puzzle you are challenged to determine throughout the show. it was a perfect and clever metaphor.

and i must give props to the stage manager, Vanessa Postil, for, without her, space chums could not have arrived with precision, time could not have shifted, space could not be stretched. she must be tied to Terri very tightly for those things to come off so fluidly and exactly. 

and it gave me goose bumps.

and i cried. unabashedly, completely, proudly, sadly, and joyously.

i gave Terri the cranes, we hugged, we talked, we broke bread. it was awesome. it was a good day. i met a lovely little theater and breathed in art. i feel restored.