Snow was coming, they said, but no snow is here. Instead, bright sun, arctic blue sky, herringbone clouds like out of childhood. Everything is fresh and brilliant, dry and cold.
It was a real hoot, once. The era that frequented such a place would have thought that joke funny.
Seattle’s Georgetown is a gritty amalgam of small-scale factories, generic industrial, squat limping working class houses, oddly placed retail rifraff of woodworking stores and paintball surplus, and an up-and-coming cool part of town with renowned restaurants, bars and clubs. The gold Georgetown above looks out on a funky hair salon with flaming mirrors and a pristine early 60’s convertible of some sort kept inside under brilliant lights. Just out of frame is Stellar Pizza, which is often mentioned around town and which I have yet to go in. The homeward bus puts me right in front of it, and it either looks closed or has a handful of thick-booted, smoking and phlegm-raising girls in front.
Fourth Avenue reminds me of countless Western towns: flat streets, powder-blue sky, squat square buildings that are closed. The cold light throws hard shadows in those places which bounty deserted for failure.
I would have never guessed this part of town is where the stone is. If you need a fancy countertop, this is the place. Every block has a yard like this, flanked by square, tall buildings where they make it into things humans consider useful.
In New Mexico there is a town that is all motels, liquor stores, and car repair shops. I drove through it one night six years or so ago, rolling down a hill into pure neon. Spinning neon asterisks flashed in the pure desert night. It was all light and cars out there glowing in the desert. This building reminds me of that town.
Ample parking day or night
People shouting “howdy, neighbor!”
This is the Pacific Market Center. It looks like something out of a comic book.
Squeezed between Airport Way, the Michigan Avenue off-ramp and rows of modest early century houses, the Georgetown Playfield is functional. The trees know.
Games and practice are always going on, all minority teams yelling in languages I don’t identify. They are serious and intense. Last night coming home at 11:30 the lights were on and teams played.
How Seattle crosses and recrosses itself is a kind of miracle. All dreams of the postwar martini mover-and-shaker set, these things stand as earnest dinosaurs in desperate need of work.
He’s under the light.
This is the way home: steep, but skyward.