Some days so hot you can smell em even without the contribution of melting piles of garbage, like the heat itself has a scent in addition to the burnt grass, the baking earth, wood chips, brittle branches, bee nectar. The air that blows hot air. Seattle what the fuck it’s 97 degrees. Where am I, who are we, what are we gonna do, what are we doing RIGHT NOW.
A pop song called “Radioactive.” Dance dance dance. Tshirts bearing the words “KEEP CALM” proliferate.
Slumped in the shade of a maple tree, stomach hot air after my lunch of (most likely GMO corn) chips and salsa. This day is like a beetle flipped over on its back, wrongly weighted. Also, it’s hard to trust that there will be consistency in love relationships, important relationships. On the other hand I with myself am consistent.
It’s fucking hot out here, waiting for the bus to take me to UW Hospital to visit my beloved friend who is young young young and has two lung diseases, who doesn’t take oxygen for granted, who’s there again. Again. There again.
Once on the bus it’s cool but reeks of pot like folks are actively toking ON THE BUS because it always smells like pot, Seattle is a Weed City, keep calm everybody.
The Earth is burning the fucking RAINforest is burning. Keep calm get high. Get stoned, keep calm as an unmoving rock. The boat the bus is rocking. Be stone.