Hello, all!

The above announcement poster is for an upcoming show opening in just two weeks time- I have over twenty brand-new works featured as part of a group show loosely themed around transportation. This time all the work is photography- shot on film, printed in a darkroom, and all the rest, as per my usual! 

The opening reception, as noted above, is:

Thursday, November 21st, from 6pm to 9. Show continues through April 1, with a Closing Show on March 20th (also 6-9) as well. Yes, there's food and wine. Yes, it's free!

It's located in the Seattle Design Center building (plenty of parking), which is at 5701 6th Ave S; Kate Alkarni Gallery, where this show takes place, is inside the building at Atrium Ste. 221. 

More directions and info about Kate's wonderful gallery here. Did you miss my last show? Check out the (in)famous video speech I gave here, or read the Seattle Times review here.

It'd be a pleasure to see you there. If you're reading this, it's because you're invited. 

Lady 1 and Lady 2 are at the front. Lady 1 is described here. Lady 2, older and white, has just stepped on; a street denizen with wizened eyes.

Lady 1: "Where you gettin' off at?"
Lady 2: "I don't have to tell you that."
Lady 1: "Why not?"
Lady 2: "'Cause it's my business. Mind your own business."
Lady 1: "You're being unfriendly. I bet- I bet you hate your job."
Lady 2: "You need to mind your own business."
Lady 1: "Driver, this lady's bein' rude to me."

Me: "Yeah?" My gears are turning, trying to figure out the best approach.
Lady 1: "Yeah. She's being unfriendly."
Me: "Maybe she's had a tough day (I should have said "long day." More diplomatic). You never know."
Lady 1: "What? Oh."
Lady 2: "Why'djoo ask me where I'm gettin' off?"
Lady 1: "'Cause I thought you might be friendly."

A pause, containing deafening silence-

Lady 1: "Driver, why aren't you doing anything? She's being unfriendly."
Me: "Well, you know, that's allowed. Sometimes people are gonna be nice, and sometimes not nice. We can't all be 100 percent all the time."
Lady 2: "That's right."
Lady 1 [to Lady 2]: "Well, I hope you hate your job and, and, and, that people are really rude to you today."
Me: "Oh, we don't need to say stuff like that! That's unfriendly!"
Lady 1: "Oh, I'm just getting back at her for what she said to me."
Me: "No, that's no way to do things. We don't need to do that."

Me, into the mic: "Our next stop is Bell Blanchard, Belltown. Here's Bell Street. After this we'll go to Virginia."
People file out; I check for incoming passengers, and there aren't any. Doors closing, but-
Man 1, inside: "Hey, can I get out?"
Me: "Sure!"

He steps out, and here's a man outside with a cane. It's Man 2.
"Heey!" I say, kneeling the coach.

Man 2: "Hey, bro. I didn't mean to call you dipshit,"
Me: "Hey, I didn't hear anything! Come on in! How you doin'."
Man 2: "Oooohhh,"
Me: "Could be better, could be worse?"
Man 2: "Yeah. We'll go with that." 
Me: "Yeah, why not. Lookin' at the bright side."
Man 2: "There's a bright side?"
Me: "It's somewhere out there!"

We service the Virginia Zone, and move down to Pike. Soon Man 2 and I are praising the beautiful weather. It's afternoon, but it's foggy.

Third and Pike. 

I turn to Lady 2 as she walks out, saying quietly, "thanks for being patient."
Lady 2: "No problem. You take care."
Me: "You too."
Lady 1: "Can you drop me off up there?"
Me: "Sure, lemme pull forward for ya."

Inwardly, I'm thinking: this 125 in front of us is doing a road relief. I'll pull around him and block temporarily while our friend here steps out. Should only take a second.
Lady 1: "I was just asking where she was going, and she got all mad at me. I wasn't trying to make her,"
Me, making sure we have enough clearance as we pull around the 125: "Yeah, I know you weren't trying to get on her nerves. People are just touchy sometimes. We gotta be patient."
Lady 1: "Are you gonna be here tomorrow?"
Me: "Yes indeed, I'm here every weekday, same time same place! You can ride my bus anytime you like!"
Lady 1: "Thank you."

As she steps out, a man in a chair with two stumps for legs signals me. It's Man 3. I signal in return, and start deploying the lift. 

The remaining exchanges below took place in under a minute, in what felt like a single sustained breath, nary a pause for air, your brain intercutting the onslaught as the world ramps up into a sort of multitasking overdrive:

Lady 3: "Do you go to, are you gonna go down, uh,"
My internal monologue: This bus is too close to the curb to deploy the lift. I need to pull away about 6 inches.
Me, to Lady 3: "Be with you in one moment." 
Me, to Man 3: "I gotta pull forward to do the lift, gimme a hot second."
Man 3: "Cool."
Me: "Okay."
Lady 3: "Do you go to,"
Me: "I'm gonna go down Third to Columbia. Wanna go to Columbia?"
Me to Man 3: "There we go." 
Lady 3: "Yes."
Man 3 looks like he needs a push; I'm blocking everything; that 125 is definitely chomping at the bit by now. He wants to get out of here, and can't. I'm at a mild diagonal, and he, the 125 driver right behind me, can see me- I wave at him, in an effort to placate him. Can't see who it is-
Me: "Do you need a push?"
Man 3: "Yeah."
Me: "Let's give you a push." I dart out of the coach and push him up the ramp, wheel him into position- "let's see here, we got one [strap] down, don't mind me, I'm just gonna reach in here,"
Man 3: "I wanna go to the last,"
Man 4, boarding: "Hey man,"
Me: "Oh hey,"
Man 3: "Go to the last,"
Man 4: "I'll be darned if I can find my transfer, somewhere in here,"
Me: "That's fine, you can pay me next time,"
Man 5, currently seated by the front: "I can get this." Gesturing at the wheelchair straps.
Me: "Wha- oh, thanks! I can get that. Thank you! I should be payin' you guys! I'm just a volunteer bus driver here!"
Man 2: "We'll be callin' for that paycheck!"
Me: "I got you covered!"
Man 3: "Thanks, bro."
Me: "Sure. Thank the fine gentleman here."
Lady 4, now entering: "Do you go to Capitol Hill?"
Me: "No, but if you go across the street right over there, you can grab a 49, or a 10..."
Lady 4: "A 49 or a 10..."
Me: "Yeah, lotsa good stuff over there."
Lady 4: "Thanks."
Me: "Sure."
Man 3: "I wanna go to the last stop on this treet."
Me : "My last stop on this street is Columbia. I can take you to Columbia?"
Man 3: "Thanks."
Lady 3: "Do you stop at Columbia?"
Me: "I do stop at Columbia! Be happy to take you over there." Into the mic: "alright everyone, time to get outta here!"

Forty-five, maybe fifty seconds. It's a breathless rush of exhilaration. Ah, yes. I was meant to be here. I take the light, waving a big smile at the drivers across the street.

Sho Luv stops by again.

We're discussing a situation "where I believe some profilin' was takin' place," as he puts it. He'd been chatting on the phone on an Eastside route.

"Were you loud?"
"No, man, I was conductin' a conversation in a regular tone,"
"Good, okay, good,"
"When the driver turns and says, 'you need to get off the bus. I need you offa my bus.' And I said, driver, what I'm doin' wrong?' And he says, 'this is my bus. And I say you got to get offa my bus 'cause you're talkin' on the phone.' But check this out. There's another lady also talkin' on her phone. He don't say nothin' to her!"
"And you weren't bein' loud now,"
"No, neither me nor the lady was loud. I think about stuff like that."
"That's cool. Lemme guess, she was white."

"She was white. And he keeps sayin,' 'this is my bus,' and I say, ' Driver, I don't think you can kick me out over this. You got another person here talkin' on the phone just the same as me.' So we wait around while he calls security."
"He calls the coordinator over talkin' on the phone? I can't believe that!" Definitely the Eastside. No downtown driver would bother; there's too much else to worry about.

"And here's the kicker, right? She, the lady herself,"
"The lady herself,"
"Asks him why he's tryna get rid a me and not her, though we both doin' the same thing!"
"Well, that's it then, man! Case closed! If we got her goin' on the record like that, well, if that's not profiling I don't know what is! What happened when the supervisor got there?"
"Nothin'. He came over and rolled his eyes."
"Nothin' else to do. Huge waste of resources."
"And driver just kep' saying, 'this is my bus. I can do what I want on my bus.'"
I steer around a pothole. "Man, I'm sorry that took place. That's an embarrassment, in this day and age. I apologize. And you know, the thing is, it is not his bus."
"No, it's not,"
"This bus does not belong to me; it belongs to the people,"
"Exactly!"
"My entire paycheck comes from all these good folks paying taxes. Without them I would be nowhere... You know he doesn't drive that thing home and park it in his garage at night..."

We laugh over the image. Both of us are the choir, and we're preaching to each other. There can be a benefit in that sometimes. I can sense a load released from his chest as he bids me farewell. Some measure of balance has been restored.

It is but a distant memory now.

Elementary school, off for the weekend. I was on a 358 (a brand new route at the time, replacing the old 6/359), and we had nearly completed the long trip in from the northern reaches of Aurora to downtown- but as we've noted before, it's never too late for things to go terribly awry.

Here we are at Pike, approaching the zone, everyone rising to deboard, when we realize there's a man on the floor, convulsing in the aisle. It's another epileptic seizure. Even at that age, I'd already witnessed the same on other buses (interestingly, almost exactly the same incident would take place over a decade later, at the same zone on the same route- except in that case the guy wasn't wearing pants!). 

While we waited for aid to arrive, I wandered outside the coach. Passengers were still filing out, and the driver, a thin, mild-mannered white face in his fifties, was out of his seat, moving about inside as he assisted passengers. I watched through the windows. He seemed to be looking for something. 

A young black man next to him, dressed in dark clothing, reached to the floor and pretended to start putting something in his jacket. Then he handed whatever it was to the driver, and they both began laughing together. The man said something, and the driver responded, and they laughed harder.

"Must be 358 humor," I thought to myself, not understanding. My elementary-age self stood there a moment longer, pondering. This I had not seen before. The seizure I could easily grasp; it was familiar. But what about this? Don't those two age-status-race-authority roles usually avoid each other, or ignore one another, or act in opposition?

I was a child. All children are born knowing race has no worth in the measure of a man. I could already see that adults often felt differently; but not these two. They were behaving just like my classmates on the school playground- which is to say, completely ignorant of race and class.

My heart beat faster, and a joy rose up in my throat. Looking at them, anything felt possible. Opposite ends closing a loop, existing in union, laughing together like a couple of regular fellows. Images like this can have quite an impact. They give shape and heft to the notion that surfaces count for little. Those two men will never know the impact their interaction had on my young self. It was only appropriate that the sun was shining.

I still feel that rush when I see such tableaus, or take part in such an interaction. The differences in culture, speech, clothing and the rest- when I see these ignored in favor of the commonalities of being human, a deep hunger is satisfied in me. It's very nearly a physical sensation, this world-affirming delight, and it thrills me unreasonably; this story is the first instance I can recall experiencing such a feeling. You'll have to forgive me the number of times I've written about people of different race or income groups interacting harmoniously. I never tire of it. In light of how often we see the opposite, I'm compelled to share. 


PS- That's me in the photograph, around 12 years old, wishing I was driving that (now-defunct) 4000 series! 

First day back on the 358. We're filling up, and cruising into Virginia. A ragtag, kaleidoscopic assemblage is milling about, as usual. 

I see gold teeth glinting in the crowded afternoon, and can't help grinning to myself. I know who that is. 

"This boy don't HAAA' no license!" he hollers, very nearly frightening the people on the sidewalk as they file in. 
"Heeyyy!" I yell with enthusiasm. From the looks on the passengers' faces, I can see my response is unexpected; most of them don't know me. Yet.

"Somebody call th' authorities, we got us a underage bus driver here!"
It's his refrain, and I enthusiastically play along.
"I got no idea what I'm doin'! I was walking home from elementary school, somebody gave me uniform, and I found this empty bus here..."
"Don't let this boy get away with this! You see this little kid here?" he says to unsuspecting lady.
Mock despair: "I know how to drive trolley buses, but I can't grow no beard!"
"Somebody done gave him th' uniform. You know he only old enough for a learner's permit!"
"Good to see you again."
"How's it goin'?"

A ladyfriend of his boarded with him, and she calls him from the back to join her, but he's too elated by the budding sense of community at the front: "Hang on, girl, I'm talkin' to my boy here!" 
"That's my sister," he says in a practically apologetic tone. "You at least gotta grow a mustache or somethin', this' gettin' outta hand,"
"Oh, you know it. I need a top hat. Glad to see you're still around!"

We talk of our shared hometown of LA, where he had recently visited. We glory in recognizing the streets and locations the other is talking about. He tells me of a club at Sunset and Ivar he was particularly pleased to visit- "we got there early, 'cause it's crowded. Got to get there around 4 or so."

"Hang on. This place is jumpin' at 4pm?" 
"Oh yeah. And lemme tell you, them younger boys was hatin' on me, man!" Meaning the women found him attractive.
"See, you still got it!"
"Those lovely ladies walk right past them, comin' over to me!"
"Look at you!" In a more serious tone I say, "confidence. That's what it is."
"Yeah. How you carry yourself."
"Don't matter how old you are, all the other stuff people say,"
"Yeah, I took my son, and he was gettin' angry! At me!"
We laugh over the absurdity of the situation. Outside a diviner is walking amongst some construction rubble, evidently searching for precious metals. 
"Oh man, will you look at that. Lookin' for gold at Aurora and 65th!"
"I think maybe someone's goin' home empty handed tonight!"
"Poor guy better hang on to that day job!"

His sister comes up to the front after a time, and I introduce myself. "Lovely to meet you, young lady. Thank you both for stoppin' by!"
She's all compliments. We continue blabbing on matters of minimal consequence.

There was a transcendance in the air, something special; the chatter was as profane as ever, slurred words and dumb observations adding up to something larger. They say transcendance lies at the intersection of the mundane and the sublime. We weren't really talking about clubs or underage jokes; we were expressing a generosity for each other, a respect and love for this happy life, strengthening the bonds of attitude, connections between each other and between ourselves and the fading twilight, the fresh-cut grass, the buzzing gnats and the world at large. That was the meaning of those sounds. 

Complimenting Sho Luv's (incredibly, the name he goes by) hat meant more than that. It was an affirmation of years spent on this Earth, amongst each other- laughing, complaining, talking wisdom and nonsense. There is something elusive underneath such chatter, at times better hinted at through surface talk than with the blocky nerve endings of confessional dialogue. It's not about the content of the words, but their texture, the sliding meanings that drift underneath them.

From this conversation, I probably don't need to point out that this is on a 358, but I suppose I will anyway! We're southbound, between 160th and 155th, by Rich's Used Car Corner and Chevron Gas. There's an older woman with a sorrowful voice who would like a question answered.

"Bus driver?"
"Yeah?"
"How come people don't have tails like other animals?"
"What's that?"
"How come people don't have tails like other animals?"
"I'm sorry, I'm having trouble hearing you."
"How come people don't have tails like other animals?"
"Uh,"
The man next to her, in shades, handlebar mustache, and cowboy hat: "She's asking why people don't have tails."

"You know, that's a great question. I have a couple different answers for that," I say in a meaningful voice, working my mind into a space where this question is entirely reasonable. "One is that tails in animals are often for balance, but in animals that stand vertically like us, we don't need a tail because it would throw us off balance, but-" into the mic: "next stop is 155th, by Safeway-" and back with her- "but in more horizontally-oriented animals like cats, you need tails to balance things out so they can move around easy."

"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Have you ever heard of anyone who had a tail?"
"Yeah, actually.. there's a guy who had surgery to make himself look like a cat, and another guy who got surgery to look like a lizard, but I don't know if either of them have tails." (Further research reveals they don't; nor was I aware of cases of abnormal vestigial tail-like growths. I'm falling behind on my human tail knowledge).  

"Can he move his tail?"
"The lizard guy?"
"No, the cat guy. Can he move his tail back and forth?"
"You know, I'm not sure. I don't think so. It's just  made of, it's not, well, I don't even know if he has one."
"Oh."
"Lizards can regrow their tails."
"Why?"
"If they fall off."
Cowboy hat: "I think we don't have tails because then we would need different pants!"
"You know, you're right. That's gotta be it," I say. "Be too much trouble. I mean, where you gonna put that thing?"
The lady is still worried. "Have you ever known or heard of anybody who was buried alive?"

Cowboy hat takes over, answering in the affirmative. Then we talk about his cat, which he firmly believes is a mix between a Lynx and a jackrabbit ("well, I think I'm sure,"), and who is tailless. He confirms it by showing me a picture on his phone. 
"Excellent," I say.

We continue down the wide expanses, having rational, thoughtful conversations about tails, cemeteries, pigs and helicopters. The high school kids from Ingraham get on, watching my smile- and my straight face. I'm in wonderful company.