Roadhouse guestbook

 

  

Practice hearts

I read this as "Shoes who are boring wear sneakers"

and then I looked closely at the picture, expecting to see the person wearing another pair of shoes under their Converse.

Sky, 2:30am

Post Office Bulletin Board

My 4 or 5 Trees

  

Here are the ([haltingly] spoken word) lyrics of Rachel's song "4 or 5 Trees" on Systems/Layers.

I was thinking about it again the other day.
I'm not sure of...

I can't remember the name.
It was down the street from my apartment.

I used to go down there pretty often...
Once a month or so.
It was set back from the street.

It had a courtyard garden...
a courtyard garden with a winding path,

a stone gazebo,

and four or five trees.
It had beautiful tall windows and red stone walls.
I never went inside.
It was clear to me that...

I should keep it as it was in my imagination.
The most peaceful place.

I haven't been inside Things and Dreams, a gift shop in Talkeetna, because it's clear to me that I should keep it as it is in my imagination.  A gypsy fortune teller's incensey lair with scarves and veils nailed loosely to the walls.  There's a shelf of sinister-looking snow globes, and a shelf of unlabeled amber-colored glass tincture bottles.  The light inside is dim.  The gypsy fortune teller has long grey wavy hair, red lips and an unreadable facial expression.  She tells my fortune with a pack of regular playing cards.  As the conversation moves she interprets my dreams and things.

Siberia reaches the same extreme northern latitudes as Alaska but Siberia's considered a desolate hellhole and Alaska's seen as the land of adventure. Why?

Down by the river

The First Thing I Did When I Got Home Was Scrub the LAX Off Me

Sunset in Talkeetna

Sunrise somewhere over Washington state

Annnnnd I'm home.

Autumn, the Party Van

 

 

Fotos

Me and Susan

I've walked down these stairs barefoot... it hurt.

Bulgarian Translation

The Roadhouse

Here is how it is easiest to concentrate: in a roomful of people talking, without music.

Starbucks & Co are no good for it.  I have more than once asked a coffee shop employee if they'd mind turning the music down.  Usually they mind, and turn it down an imperceptible eighth of a notch to appease me.  I am not appeased.

A train is perfect.  No music, people talking, plus the regular rhythm of the tracks clacking.  And trains are comfortable. 

In Talkeetna, the Roadhouse is perfect.  It's the only eatery in town that does not play music, and there's a perfect din of people talking, and there are only a few large tables instead of a bunch of small ones, so the people talking are often talking to strangers, fellow travelers, so when one phrase or sentence leaps above the din like a fish it's usually unusual.

"Why'd you move to Alaska?"
"My mom got a wild hair up her ass.  I was fourteen."

Lasagna, burnt coffee, essays by Katherine Anne Porter: perfect morning.  Morning that is not a morning because I've been awake since midnight: maybe the best mismatch of internal and external clock. 

South Carolingians on vacay

Why yes, that is the Mexican Flag

The Roadhouse was built between 1914 and 1917

Try

On Wednesday night I played kickball.  The rule is, you have to be holding a beer in one hand at all times.  Kickball's played in the softball field in town.  This is one of the signs in the field. 

Interesting Approach, Nature

Solstice Sunset

Solstice Sunrise

But Without My Dogs, Weapons and Drugs, Who Am I?

The Fairview's rules.  I like the flower.

Camping

Thousands of Words

Boxcar

Work

 

Halo

Moted

 

Doubletake

Sign posted in the window of a flightseeing business... not the library.

Trees as Narcissus

Until today I felt guilty when I looked at a sunset or tree and thought, "That's as pretty as a painting."  How steeped in culture, how indoors, to look at nature and think it's almost as good as what's meant to represent it.

In the Ladies' Room at the Fairview Inn

I Wrote This Entry On a Piece of Notebook Paper While Drinking Chuli Stout in Town

As with heaven, only certain people are chosen to be Night Audit clerks: you have to be either left-handed or transgendered, and like reading.

At the lodge where I worked last summer in Utah, the main Night Audit clerk was Linda, a Danny DeVito lookalike with a grey ponytail, who wore bright red nail polish and flowered shirts.  Technically/physically she was a man, but she preferred to be referred to as a woman.  I used to see her reading in the cafeteria all the time.

The Night Audit relief clerk there was (I think still is?) Rodney, a left-handed Native American man who had a bunch of intimidating philosophy books in his employee housing dorm room.  I borrowed one, never read it, gave it back.

The main Night Audit clerk here is a left-handed woman who has mentioned bringing a book with her to work.  And this lodge's newest Night Audit relief person is moi, a lefty who got herself a Matanuska-Susitna Borough library card today.

To those who would say it's arbitrary and unfair that only transgendered or left-handed readers get to go to heaven, I say: The ways of hotel front desk managers are not our ways.  

Here are some photos I took today that are unrelated to this post:

Mt McKinley

Skywater

Caterpillar Tree

Colors

Yeah