Photo by Chad Solomon.

Thank you, friends, for making that opening such a wonderful event! I was babbling to you wonderful people without a pause from the moment I walked in the door until after the place had closed! I couldn't ask for more. Time is such a rare commodity; thank you for choosing to spend some of it with me.

Did you miss the opening? You might think you did, but wait! 

There are two more receptions– a second reception on Thursday, October 16th, from 6pm-9, and a Closing reception on November 20th, also a Thursday, from 6pm-9. I'll be there at those times for both dates. The shows line up with Georgetown's Third Thursday art walk, and there's a lot of galleries inside Seattle Design Center (including COCA!) besides my show! Come check it all out!

Details, dates and directions can be found here.

Hope to see you there! Show details, directions and more here.

Photo by Tim Willis.

I'm going to hold off from posting for a week or so as I go into what some of my friends call hibernation mode– not sleeping, mind you, but preparing for my September 18th show, which promises to be different from all the ones previous! Meanwhile, I'll leave you with this, a collection of interesting moments I've had recently, which all strike me with the unexpected nature of how events sequence themselves....


--

What the uninitiated would call a "crazy lady" boards and sits near the front. She speaks to the air in front of her. Another woman with more regular brain function, strangely affluent for the 7 and somewhat out of place as a result, boards at Union without paying. "I owe you $2," she says by way of explanation, and sits next to the unstable speaker. She ends up earning her ride through much more useful means than paying me cash– she speaks to the rambling woman next to her and keeps her at bay, artfully engaging her and keeping the thread of decorum alive. She probably didn't know how valuable her presence would end up being on the bus, but I was very grateful. "This one's on the house," I said later.

--

"God bless you," says a thug at Henderson after I give his friend a transfer. He shakes my hand in the ebullient glow of acceptance. Two hours from now he will be in the Saar's parking lot, fighting another young man, smile gone and a crowd gathering.

--

Two young men in an unwashed beige four-door, let's call it a Honda or Nissan or somesuch, nothing fancy. They catch my eye as I jog across the street in Rainier Beach because one is black and the other is white, and both seem dressed like– well, as if they just applied to Dartmouth and both like listening to classical music and progressive talk radio. Less than twenty minutes later I'll see them again. The beige car will be smoldering and crumpled from the rear. They'll be standing outside, hands on hips and foreheads, nerves fraught and struggling for balance. But that hasn't happened yet. For now they're simply driving, laughing about something, carefree and present.

--

A wheelchair is rising up on the lift. One set of wheelchair seats is occupied by an older Muslim woman. The other is a white guy in a suit in his forties– the only white guy in sight, and currently the only fellow around with a suit. He remains motionless as the wheelchair enters. Seeing this, the Muslim woman offers her seat instead to the wheelchair. I stand and walk back to get the straps, and right as the Muslim woman is hesitantly moving out of the way, before I can catch myself, I've said it out loud to the Man in the Suit:
"You don't feel like movin'?"
When he stares slowly and doesn't respond I say "okay," and ask after the wheelchair lady's day. Prejudice earns my disrespect very easily, and I try to forget about it. I ought not to have said anything.
But he pipes up carefully and politely during a break in the conversation: "I actually just finished donating blood. I'm feeling, really woozy right now."
I stand there a second and take him in as an individual. He wasn't a rich white guy preening at all the colored folk around him. No, he was merely a guy, a guy working through some issues, like every single other person. How idiotic of me.
"Oh my goodness, okay. I understand. You're fine. You should relax."
"Thank you."
"Oh yeah, let's get you home." Pause. "Listen, I didn't mean to be testy in my tone back there." 
"Hey, you're okay. All you did was ask a question."
"Thanks for understanding."
He'll say the same to me when he leaves.

--

I'm sitting in my seat, turned completely around, elbow on the farebox, talking down two violently furious drunk men. Both have verbally assaulted myself, others, and each other, and will continue to do so with increasing intensity for much of the remaining ride. The police will prove particularly useless this afternoon, both in their failure to respond but more curiously in one officer's regrettable behavior to one of the principals as he boarded, thus instigating the debacle in the first place. I aim for that delicate mixture of asserting myself and remaining flexible, bending like reeds in the wind and never breaking. 

One of the screaming men, drowning in a pathetic and ugly hostility, continually restates his former military status. I feel the heady rush of working, really working, struggling to stay on top of a situation. I wonder when I'll see this man again– probably sooner rather than later. I don't know that it'll be just a week, exactly a week, and although next Friday afternoon he will be unkind and unhappy, he will also be sober. He will sneak on the back, all rage and muscle, never mind the fare, tearing his own transfer in a rash of entitlement. But, as he deboards at Othello I'll say to him, without irony, "Thank you, Mister Navy Seal! Thank you for serving!" 

And he will slow a little, disoriented and uncharacteristically appreciative, stumbling through words of gratefulness he's not used to using. His voice is an odd fit for "thank you," but he does his best. Confusion. I want to hug the guy, but as in hugging a porcupine, I have myself to consider. I hope he finds more of what is missing in his life.

Triangle Park, across from the Frye– the very same "it's-not-the-Frye-unless-there's-an-ambulance-out-front–" right in the heart of upper Pioneer Square, is not known for harboring commuters with an urgent need to catch specific buses to outlying destinations. Especially not at midnight. Nevertheless, tonight a runner streaks out of its dark recesses toward my stop at Prefontaine, right as that famously short light turns green. As I've said before, I've noticed many runners are "impulse riders" who don't actually need your specific route. They just need something going up a few blocks. But you just never know. His eager smile and hustle convince me to tarry– African-American man, bald, in a huge black sweatshirt with some sort of red lettering.

After some pleasantries, we're rolling. I'm curious. "Did you need the 49, or are you jus' goin' up the street?"
"I needed the 49. I just missed the 66."
"Well shoot, I'm glad you made it."

This man didn't just need the 49, as it turns out, he needed it clear to the end of the line! And, would you believe it, he ended up being a Metro employee! He cleans the buses every night, and we talked shop and life for the rest of the ride. I never would've guessed, him flying out of Triangle Park like that. Today was a double shift for him, and he mentioned in a complaining tone that upon arriving home, he won't be able to get to sleep instantly.

"How come?"
"'Cause my kids, man, they gon' ask how my day was...."
He says it in a tone indicating he knows he shouldn't be complaining, buuuutttt....
I cut in, exclaiming, "that's 'cause they love you, man!"
He grins, relaxing. 
"Yeah, dude!" I continue. "They're gonna say how was your day, they gonna ask whatchoo did, you're gonna ask what they did, they'll probably show you some stuff, and it'll all be beautiful! It's the great human condition! You know!"
The girl sitting behind us, with the wavy auburn hair, smiles as she listens.

I won't be there, but my work will! You might see me on a 7/49 going by. This show is unique in that the art is amazingly, stunningly affordable! Information above. Stay tuned for an exciting new upcoming show at KAG as well!

They get on at inbound Campus Parkway, having just passed up a 71. "So I'm just goin' to Capitol Hill, not Downtown," I explain. We're a short 49, merely going down Broadway and eventually back to Base.
"What?" says the first man.
"That's fine, Capitol Hill perfect," says the other. "You go down Broadway, right?"
"Yeah Broadway,"
"See, Broadway," says the second fellow to his friend. "Perfect."

I hear the second man muttering. They're the only people on the bus– it's my last trip, a late-night short 49 to close out the evening. The pair strike me as first-generation African versions of the Odd Couple, or maybe Laurel & Hardy, except this time Hardy's not tall and heavy, but the short squat fellow. Just as self-serious though. Laurel in this case is the second guy, taller than in those classic films, lanky and very fit this evening, one of those folks you sense feels pretty jolly regardless of the circumstance. Hardy over here, not so much. He's muttering darkly. "Well, that 71 stops at Convention Place, which is closer. Had we known."

"Hey," Laurel pipes up. "Where you go on Broadway?"
"I go south on, I go all the way down Broadway to Jackson."
"See?" he says to Hardy. "That's perfect!"
"Excellent!" I say. "Where do you want to go?"
"On Pine, close to Broadway, but a little bit...."
I think he's about to say 'west,' so I cut in with, "like down by Belmont, Summit? Bellevue?"
"Yeah, over there."
"Oh, yeah. I'd say its about equidistant between the 71 and me. And this way you get to walk downhill!"

Stan Laurel smiles, revealing rows of shiny, spotless white teeth. In an East African accent he says, "my friend just don't want to walk! I'm blue collar, he is white collar!"
He and I laugh in solidarity.
"He's the bossman," Laurel continues. "Me, I got my running shoes,"
"You ready for anything!"
"Exactly!"
"You guys going home?"
"Yeah. Well, not yet. We make a stop first, my friend he wants to see some music." I can't get over the deep fearless baritone of his voice. One of those men whom you have no idea what their past life consisted of, but you better believe it required confidence.
"Excellent! Yeah, don't go home yet!"
"Yeah, is' just a small band, one of our friends, underground, but they're good, you know?"
"Sometimes that's the best!"
"Yes!"

We fly up Harvard, approaching Roanoke, making that wire sing. Nobody's out here. I think about not inquiring further about their friends' show, in the name of respectfulness... but how lame that would be! "What are they called, what's the band's name?"
"Third World."
"Third World?"
"Yeah, Third World."
"Cool! Thank you!"
"Yes, they play at the Baltic Room, on Monday nights."
"The Baltic Room yes, right over there,"
"Yes. Monday nights. Nowadays the interesting genres they play on weeknights. Reggae, International, this type of thing. And then the hip-hop, R&B takes over all the weekend."

Hardy's too busy sulking to take part in the conversation. He gets some good alone time peering out the window. Laurel and I, though, we could be anywhere– a ship's hold, back of a kitchen, janitor's closet, folding hotel laundry– all the nooks and crannies where the working folk air their opinions, listening and making hand gestures in forgotten rooms, all over the back sides of the city. Populations choosing to spend the in-between moments talking together, sharing something– life– in common. Wiping your forehead with a rolled-up sleeve. Aren't you glad to be alive in this world?

I'm nodding. "Friday Saturday, more normal,"
"More normal, yeah." Slightly pejorative and okay, just a little delectable tones from both us, as in, we both know there's more than just that type of music, and we feel snobbishly good about this.
"Well, that makes me feel good, because I have weekdays off."
"Perfect. Yes, lot of Somali musicians play here around town. Like Fatima [unintelligible] was just here in Seattle, she just played here."
"Fatima Djari...?" Who? What? I lose it in the noise.
"Yes, Fatima [unintelligible]. She's terrific, getting very popular. In huh twenties. The international music is great,"
"Expanding your horizons!"
"Exactly!" He leans forward and back, elbows on legs spread apart, too charismatic, too enthusiastic to fit in one passenger seat. We build on each other's energy.
"Yes," I agree, "because the world is so much bigger than just the, United States,"
"Yes! I tell my friend here–" heeah– "sometimes you have to listen outside your comfort zone!"
"Yes, and discover new things! I say, if you only ever listen to stuff you already like, you may never find things you absolutely love! Things you never would have guessed!"

We dissolve in a joyful ball of agreement, nodding furiously. Hardy looks out the window. He rolls his eyes when Laurel slaps him on the shoulder, trying not to smile.

Tenth Avenue and Newton. After a pause: "hey. How do you spell that name? Fatima I know, but the last name?"
"Oh yes." He spells it. Diawara. "She's great! Very fresh!"
"And then Third World, that will be easy for me to remember. Thank you! Now I have something new to listen to!"
"Yes, you will like it. They ah very different from each other."

Hardy speaks. "Hey, could you let us know the closest stop for Broadway and Pine?"
"It'll be this next one."
"Just if you could let us know the closest,"
"Why are you worried?" Laurel speaking. "Everything is fine! It is a short walk."
"Well,"
Good-naturedly: "Stop trying to make it seem like a far distance! We ah already here, I could get off now even and be right there already!"

It's clear now it's really the Laurel who wants to see the music, not his friend, as he first intimated. But no mind. They are a regular comedy duo, one forever happy, the other forever the opposite, an odd couple, griping and laughing their way through a good time. The second man reminds me of myself as a child. Remember those moments when your mother was doing everything she could to get you interested in trying this meal, or getting in the water, maybe taking off those training wheels? And then you discovered how much you loved it? We don't know at that age what lies beyond the comfort zone. I hope Mr. Hardy has a similarly and unexpectedly good time at the show tonight.