January 17, 2009

Seattle has had a soundtrack. I travel from place to place in a kind of lonesome perfection, introspected, the music from my headphones making everything so beautiful I want to cry. On the bus it is the commuter, the homeless woman, the crazy man, the student, the Weepies, Eddie from Ohio, the Counting Crows. Walking to the theater, hands in pockets, grey sidewalk and misty rain, it is people dashing and cars driving and lights flashing and Ben Gibbard and Ben Lee and Ben Folds Five. Portland had me driving from place to place, a quiet radio, NPR, advertisements, unknown pop. But Seattle has been buses to the apartment, to the show, to the bar, to the gym, to the market, to auditions. Fremont, Queen Anne, Capitol Hill, Downtown, Greenlake, Wallingford, Paul Simon, Dave Matthews, Joanie Mitchell, Nick Drake.

I am alone here. I have found close friendships within the cast, and I have a handful of childhood friends in this city, but at the beginning and end of the day, it is me. I have had much time for thinking. I have had need for self-reliance. I have fallen asleep and woken up with the bed still made. I have had the most fantastic dreams, every single night. I miss Sam. I miss Obie. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and think, here we are again. It is good and challenging and lonesome and fulfilling and melancholy and beautiful.

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