I.
I am* walking through my ninth floor window across the city, down to Elliot Bay. I have not become particularly large but the skyscrapers become stepping-stones. I have learned & acknowledged that reality is subjective and I can defy physics.
When I finally make it down to the pier, I look back and the city has flooded. The tide came in so, so far today. The hills of Seattle are islands and people are using boats on (or, technically, above) the same thoroughfares usually backed up by the poorly managed automobile traffic. The crew team at my university has begun to run a taxi service in the off-season so they can stay in shape while earning a little coin. “Where to ma’am?” A customer tells them someplace. “Alright team, now row!”
The city is like some living tribute to Al Gore, global warming and melted ice caps.
Scuba gear has increased in popularity because some things, places in the city, are no longer accessible without it. There used to be an imported spice store bellow Pikes Place that is now flooded. Teams of merchant divers go down to bring back the glass jars and I am floating somewhere nearby, watching them. The tight seal of the mason jars has saved all the expensive seasonings.
“Sea saffron,” I say as one of the divers brings up a jar of the red thread spice.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I reply and take a floating, half-empty jar of nutmeg.
II.
I am Saturday and I never figured out why anyone would name a child after a day of the week. People expect me to be a heavy drinker or to sleep late or be really fond of cartoons. That is what the weekend is. Really, none of that interests me. Sometimes I like to fuck with people who make dumb jokes or expect me to have those qualities, so I tell them, “Actually, I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. My wife and I only participate in the sexual practices approved by our church.”
Sometimes I prove them right. I just yawn and say nothing.
There was a Sheryl Crow song my mother was fond of when I was younger and a man in it had a daughter named Easter. I think she was born on a Tuesday. She told me the first time she heard that song, “Hey, it’s kind of like you.” Saturday was born on a Monday afternoon. The weird young man named Saturday.
However, I would still much rather be Saturday than Leonard. My father was crazy.
III.
I am so small and silent, sitting at my desk. I am a tiny little closed seashell. Like the naughty child sticking her tongue out, I draw myself so far inward, no one can grab at my pink soft flesh. No one can wash the bad habits off with soap.
*I have been reading Natalie Goldberg’s Wild Mind: Living the Writer’s Life. There are writing exercises scattered througout and one of them was to have waking dreams, starting with the phrase “I am.”
