Six months is a long time to hold the pause button. Half a year of awesome is starting to spill out of my ears; I don't even know what to say. So let me focus this revival post (hopefully the first of a nice, regular flow) on an excellent starter-topic: My neighborhood.
Capitol Hill, Seattle. For a not-quite-published pomosexual closet-masochist coffee addict with a limited income, this place is heaven on earth. Sweet lord, it just overflows with goodness --wide-open, no questions asked, ever accepting goodness. You should have to win a lottery to live here. It's sinful. Close your eyes. You are about to begin another day in this place...
Dreaming about pregnancy, again (because everyone you know, male or female, is pregnant), you awake. For a moment, you panic. But you are not pregnant. Which is awesome.
Instead you are lying in a totally warm, not-too-hot place (all Seattle apartments are cozy-warm and not-too-hot-warm, except for Mr. Binder's condo, which is sweltering). The beaming, glorious sun has been beaten bloody and left to die behind a thick wall of clouds, and that's nice. Morning doesn't hurt your eyes here. There is an ungodly loud sound outside, but you like that, too. It's the recycling truck, which sounds like a giant ostrich giving birth when it backs up, but that's okay. Recycling is a good thing, you remind yourself.
You are likely naked. You walk to the kitchen (or you walk home, and if that is the case, you should put clothes on first, unless it is a special holiday). You listen to NPR and make coffee in a french press and then guzzle it. You check your email with free, abundant, stolen wireless, lace up your shoes, and drive to work. Remember, the sun is not in your eyes. To the West and to the East, pointy mountain peaks are covered in snow, but it's a pleasant 55 degrees outside. Jacket weather.
Work is an empty house. You scrub. You buff the stainless steel appliances and vacuum and sneeze at the dog hair. No one bothers you. You get the sense that your motions are useful and good. Someone will later appreciate the shiny floor. They will smell all the clean when they get home, like in those Febreeze commercials, and their evening will be better and lighter because of you. You play with the dog, which is adorable and does not slobber. Then you drive to the home of your boss, a stout, no-bull elderly lesbian, to pick up your paycheck. Did I mention it is almost Christmas? She gives you a bag of cookies and laughs and says that they're Gingerbread Dykes. Merry Christmas.
You can tell you are on Capitol Hill again at the Olive Way stoplight because every man you see is tall and handsome and possesses a faux-hawk. Unless he happens to be black. Then, he is bald. The good kind of bald. The sexy kind of bald. Everyone is dressed like they're going to a concert, and so no one in particular looks like they're trying too hard, and so you don't feel like you'll attract too much attention by wearing whatever the hell you want. A dwarf on a scooter with a pipe in his mouth whizzes by on the cross-walk. You've seen him before. You've also seen Link, the Link from Zelda, complete with tights. He is standing outside the cupcake shop. He is eating a cupcake. On the corner, a middle-aged bi-racial gay couple kisses with complete sweetness in the broad (but muted) daylight, and an angel gets its wings. You are home.
You are home, and it's only 1pm. You take a nap, eat something that involves avocados, shower, call your mom. You throw some library books into your bag and walk to the park, the one with all the trees that are effortlessly sit-able. You sit in one and read, because the ground and the park benches are slightly wet. Or you maybe you go sit in a cafe for awhile with your laptop, where you will have no choice but to order something with an Italian name (drip does not exist here). Or maybe you go to the gym, and maybe you will be on the treadmill directly across from that awesome plump woman with the ipod, who swings wildly on the elliptical while lip-syncing to music only she can hear, tossing her butt-length gray hair with so much sass. You love this woman. You love her so, so much.
And then a friend calls. You argue for ten minutes about which Thai place to go to, because there are so many, all good, all reasonably priced, all within walking distance. And after all this delicious food and this delicious company, the options are endless. A burlesque show. A quiet bubble bath. A free art gallery. A play. A disco full of queens and people who can dance without pressing their penises all over you. A frisbee game. An S&M session. A walk on a pebbly beach. Parcheesi.
And as you walk on to any one of these things, it is raining. But not really. It's more of a mist. You don't need an umbrella. You don't even need to close your eyes. Everything is lush and nothing seems threatening, not even the occasional cat-call. The men here don't shout "Ow, mama!" or "Hey girl, turn that thing around!". They just speak loudly, and smile sincerely, and say things like "May I please say that you are gorgeous?" or "You look so nice. I hope you're having a great day."
And you say back, "I am, thank you. I really am." You feel all giddy after that, and it's still 8pm with the rest of the evening is still wide open ahead of you, and you know how you will be when it ends: Warm and not-too-hot. Probably naked. Unquestionably, unabashedly happy.