There is an wonderful water feature next to the theater. It is a basin with a drain at the bottom, and two jets of water stream into it at an angle, causing the water to swirl around as it goes down. It forms fluid geometric patterns in its center. Then the fountain is programed to pause and restart in a way that causes the water to swish from side to side as it spirals down. It drains all the way out in this pattern, and then fills up again. It reminded me of Sartre's assertion that the entire universe is constantly being pulled out of existence, as if sucked by a giant drain, and being reinvented by us all just as quickly as it disappears. Sometimes I think it feels like there's an imbalance in that, like there's a clog in the universe-drain, and Being gets backed up and crowds in on itself. And sometimes the drain works faster than the reinvention.

The texture of Seattle: Seattle feels, looks, tastes like the cinematic 1980s. Is it because I lived here as a child in that decade? Is it the civic yearning for modernity? Seattle is fairly urban, with big city stores and homeless people. But it lacks the energy of survival, somehow. There is a sense of prefabricated comfort and convenience, like it's not a city at all, but an enormous Pottery Barn.

There must be something I am missing.

Creeping nasties of the interior

I took a nap this afternoon and dreamed that I was in a dank and filthy basement that was empty except for some creepy crawlies on the floor that I didn't really want to see. I became aware that I was dreaming, and that the basement somehow represented my psyche, which made me want to observe the nasties, but I still didn't do it. Oh! I have shared too much.

Better hang on to yourself

I spent the earlier part of the day walking along a paved path along the water, bright and sunny. I would have preferred to prowl a filthy harbor, a-crawl with giant wharf rats and grizzled fishermen, the weather-grey boards slick in the steady drizzle. But it was all smiles and no slime. Did not match my mood. Have you ever had that dream in which you have finally returned to a place for which you have yearned, but everything is different and Italy looks like Provo, or whatever? Sometimes that's how Seattle makes me feel. I used to miss the water so much, but now I'm a stranger here.

Seattle is also strange. People act funny here. They kind of do what they want, I guess, and seem to be less self-conscious than in other places. They dress how they want, age appropriateness be damned. I guess that's kind of cool. I saw a middle-aged white guy in Greenlake park, teaching a young black guy how to dance on roller skates to hip hop music. Kind of a skeevy, slow sort of roller-dance.

So now I'm perched in the cafe with orange walls, listening to David Bowie (Ziggy Stardust) next to an open window. Next to me, outside of the window, is an old fellow who looks like a regular citizen (without my glasses on), but is betrayed by his street smell of stale perspiration of booze, which wafts through the screen now and then. It's fun to sit here, because I can here his comments to passers by; he's looking for someone from whom he may purchase a cigarette. He begins each query by complimenting some article of clothing, and sometimes he whistles at the women. Seems to be enjoying himself.

40 tiny fires

So there's me and John and our friend, Jacob, in a yurt in the middle of the forest. There are about 40 candles burning and the sound of rain falling on the tarp that protects us. It is warm and clean and we are eating bacon. We have been reading three-part medieval music by candlelight for hours, drinking mead and 2-buck chuck. I have been playing around with Jacob's hurdy gurdy, which is at least one hundred and fifty years old, loud and addictive to play, even though I have invented my own kind of cadence by missing my note over and over again. We are on the outskirts of Camlann medieval village, where Jacob makes masks and backdrops for plays, and for which he tries to recreate dances from pictures. Jacob would like to make a puppet of a pig wearing a henin* and walking on stilts, but henins didn't come about until the 14th century, he says, and the village is a 13th century one. The forest is in one of those places where there is no shield from the rain, so it's very verdant and wet all of the time. The woods smell uncannily of scented heliotrope, which is my favorite smell in the whole world.

Today, I got a couple of tiny house plants, which I hope will grow into great big ones. I have named them Sappho and Lusk.

*conical medieval hat

Bialystock und Bloom, God dag pur day!

Today, I donned a clean white shirt, went downtown and signed on at a temp agency. 41 words a minute, they said. Probably something for me to do behind a desk within the week, they said. I hope so, for I am broke and desolate of opportunity here in Seattle. I am putting together an early music concert proposal for later this year, and I hope I can get a little grant for it. I want to sing something meaningful and storyful. Who cares if they listen? Okay, I do. But in the meantime, there is still practice for me. And hopefully answering phones for some office or another. Maybe there will be a shiny elevator or an amusing hand dryer. "Ulla, go to work!"

The other thing pressing itself to the surface of my sluggish mind is an idea I have for a concert back in Salt Lake later this summer: French Song from Those Painted Cave Bison to Jacques Brel , and Everything In Between! Yeah, maybe just from the
troubadours on. But wouldn't that be a kick? (I'm talking to YOU, Miss Anna.)

Other than mein Sturm und Drang, I have enjoyed the the ballet, in particular. All Stravinsky. The Balanchine pieces were wonderful. There was also a solo dance to Sacre du Printemps, scrubbed of Stravinsky's intention- not a bad thing in itself, but the dance got pretty tedious. An amazing feat of endurance, to be sure, but
to what end? Loving the music, I missed the spectacle and the story.

So anyway, I miss everybody, wonder if I will last in the big city, and really like it when you all email me.

Seattle: Pines for you!

Here I sit in a cafe around the corner that offers free wireless, great
music, the soothing hum of jackhammers and a view of handsome road
workers and theoccasional strolling ballerina. Very nice! I spent
yesterday with John, shopping for tall mirrors. If you're a singer, you
need a tall mirror for practicing, among other things. I had worried
about our close quarters being an obstacle to my discipline, but it's
working out okay. I can't say whether or not he feels the same, since
I'm generally louder than the lute.

We live on Queen Anne
hill. From our parking lot, there is a postcard view of the space
needle, the harbor and the city skyline. It seems to be a surprisingly
real neighborhood, relatively speaking. There are neighborhood bars and
an old hardware store. There is a dazzling array of roses,
rhododendrons and rosemary. There are fancy grocery stores with
affordable organic produce and heaps of grumpy yoga teachers.