Migration

Hi there. Just doing some poetry warm-up, fresh from me to you. Hope you dig it. May your day be full of peace. <3, C.A.

Migration

You, the strange
Hawk,

Live on the wind;

You bring the glide.
You bring the climb,
The vision,
And the furious dive.

How I've always wanted
To be a flier,
To give up and give in,
To let the air and the sky

Keep me

Alive,

To steal time,
Swallowing up

All distant

Shapes --
The crawlers, and the motionless --
Like a wild fire.

Each year, you, a thief,
Shake your head and rise up.

Quick

and nearly silent,
but for the tree calls.

Perhaps, with weather,
Comes
A sudden message.

Safe, I imagine,
Nesting,
Looking backwards
In the pine.

Human now.

I keep this
Secret,
A curled-up talon.
It is yours and mine,
Hanging on a wing.

Black licorice
and dark chocolate.
Here and there, I step
On the heels
Of your shoes.

Hurry,
Fall.

Each year,
How I worry
About this grounded

Body.

My feet crack.
My knees crack.

I look to you for

Wheat
Pancakes.

But sometimes I see myself
Teaching flight.

Sometimes I see myself
Feeding
A surprise child.

C.A. MacConnell

The Moment is...Home

Good morning. See, one of my favorite movies is Waking the Dead, a 2000 drama directed by Keith Gordon, starring Jennifer Connelly and Billy Crudup. The screenplay, by Robert Dillon, is based on Scott Spencer's 1986 novel by the same name. It's an intense, fascinating, tragic love story packed with acting chemistry and witty writing.

Stay with me. This is not a mere film review, although that's hidden in here somewhere.

To me, the brilliance of Waking the Dead is the result of perfect casting; these two actors are so mesmerizing together, it's impossible to believe the result is merely a film. The first time I saw it, I never stopped to think, This is fiction. Rather, I was completely engaged. Whenever I see either one of these actors in a magazine or in another movie, I still think of that film, and I wonder about what it was like to create such a passionate, severely emotional beast.

My heart seeks out the depth, the sincere spirit, and the noise. And creations like this film bring me back to who I really wish to be.

Off the top of my head, some other films affected me this way as well -- The Judge, Into the Wild, Dances with Wolves, She's So Lovely, Maudie, The Four Feathers, Avatar, Cinema Paradisio, Chaplin, and Ray, to name a select few.

What do they all have in common? A startlingly unique, soulful edge, a mix of tragedy and love, and a fervor for all things passionate. The ache, the joy, the celebration of cavernous and mountainous life.

Amen.

Great music, an ancient landscape painting, or a soulful photograph will put me in this soulful place as well; I get lost in it, and it centers me in the present, reminding me that all we really have is the time and space surrounding us...right here, right now.

And that, to me -- the inescapable, precious moment when I realize how lucky I am to be feeling, living, growing, and alive -- is divine.

The moment is here. The moment is real. You and I are sharing this together.

The moment is...home.

Love,
C.A. MacConnell

The Struggle, the Bigger Plan

The Struggle, the Bigger Plan

One friend's mother had a stroke. Another friend is back in the hospital after recovering from a heart attack. Yet another girl's fiance just passed away from an overdose. Yesterday, as I was listening to others' stories, I started to think about the trials we all face, and it really put my life into perspective.

I teared up a little.

Through hearing others speak, I was reminded of the way our pains cement us together, how we create hope for one another, and how the spirit inside of all of us creeps out when we need it the most.

Let me back up. Some years ago, when I rode horses professionally, much of the time, I was focused on my riding -- getting better, achieving, helping my students rise up, and the like. But after many years in the business, when my boss retired, and I later lost my job due to illness, the real truth began to unfold. I never missed the horse shows at all. Becoming a winner was no longer important. Instead, I greatly missed my boss, my mentor and friend. I missed his deep, rumbling laugh. And I missed all of my students, especially the girl who couldn't remember her course when her ADD flared up. And I missed the times when I would watch the horses run in the fields. Free. When it was all gone, I didn't miss the trainer status or achievements. Rather, I missed the connections, the spirits, and the many forms of love hidden within the barn walls.

Loss, tumultuous times, heartache -- these things showed me what was really important in life.

And these life changes continue to wake me up right here, right now.

For the past few months, I've been focused on finding a steady income. There have been many, many continuous setbacks -- one after another it seems. But after I heard my friends talking, I realized that the job status wasn't nearly as important as my family's love, my sobriety, and the number of lessons I've processed over this time period, all the while maintaining my integrity and strength. I'm here, I have food and a safe place to live. It's rocky, but so what. I'm worried about my vision, but I may just need glasses. I'm...all...right. Loss happens, but things change. They always do. Always. Before I know it, I'll look back on this time as a necessary part of my journey.

Before I know it, I'll be sitting on the couch, laughing at the stress.

And who knows -- maybe someone will be laughing with me.

Yesterday, when I was walking against the wind (really struggling, it was powerful), a beautiful hawk flew right in front of my path. If it weren't for the wind holding me back, I never would've seen this magnificent creature.

Sometimes the struggle is there to help us navigate the bigger plan.

This morning, my heart goes out to you, especially if your struggle is fierce; it seems these days that many are having hard times. I hope that through my words, I can provide a little hope for you, in the way that people have done for me so many times before.

I have a friend, J., who is blind. When I see him, it never fails; he's always cracking jokes -- making sarcastic remarks about himself and others. I've never seen him without a smirk, and he always delivers quick one-liners. He never feels sorry for himself; he just carries on about his day, keeping it all rather cheerful and unique. The light inside of him touches me every time, reminding me that we can all play a part in the world's hope.

I will try to see the divine spirit inside others today. God, higher power, Buddha, hawks, whatever you call that "something greater" out there, let it be known that it is there for you and me -- within the trees, the planets, and the people all around -- as long as we look.

C.A. MacConnell

💞💕

Photo.

Hi there. Just a cool shot for you today. Man, I slept in...never do that! Yesterday, I saw my aunt sing with Camerata at St. Rose, which is an amazing church. It brought me to tears. XO In a good way. What talent...the sound was mesmerizing...divine. There's another show today, if you're interested. Check out the site.

Have a beautiful day,
C.A. MacConnell

The 'In-between' Girl

I have another talent, besides sneaking into the mosh pits. There's a strange side of me that's sort of like a hidden...matchmaker...shall we say. See, if you date me for 4-6 months, you are sure to get married within 4-6 months -- not married to me, but after we break up, you'll usually move away and marry someone else. It happens every time.

Dating me is a surefire way to find your real true love -- not me.

Back in 2000, after I broke up with my boyfriend, he moved to Lithuania, and then got married soon after. Then there was the one who moved to New York and married a girl from Asia. There's the one who moved to Costa Rica and got married. The girl who turned straight and got married soon after dating me. The hippie who moved to Montana and got married not long after me. The rocker who married the Brazilian right after dating me...soon, I might add; I really was good with that one. The friend turned boyfriend who got married right after dating me.

The list goes on and on and on. All of them get married within 6 months. It happens every time. Do I mind? Not really. Montana, New York, and Brazil got to me a little, but it was cake, really.

Truly, I'm ultra-independent, and it leaks out.

So if you're having trouble with you're dating life, just date me for 4-6 months, and I'll be sure to groom you to find the right one to marry. Soon. See, I'm the "in between" girl, the girl who fills in the gap for the right one to slide on in. I've never been married; I've never even lived with anyone, except for my roommate in college and why she put up with me, I have no idea, but we sure had fun.

I'm sure there's a "therapeutic term" for this, but I'm not digging. Do I hope for true love? Sure I do. Do I want to get married? For true love, yes, but not just to do it. I want the soul connection. I want my hawk, my wolf, my mate for life, of course.

I hope, secretly. But most of the time, I just do my thing. Shrug.

No worries; it's good to know one's talents. Now why haven't I ever been invited to any of the weddings? I feel like I've played a part. A big part. Actually, I should be praised at the weddings. Perhaps I should even receive wedding gifts. Yes, send them on over, friends. Please include a receipt.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Roanoke Star.

Roanoke Star

Roanoke, VA

A powerful, electric star set on Mill Mountain in Roanoke. You can see it all over the city and then some...it's actually enormous. But you can hike up there in the day, which is what I did. :) Can't remember who I was with, but I know someone was there. I think it was my hippie friend Jason, who also used to get pancakes with me.

Sometimes I just need to look at a star. ;) 🌟🌟🌠

Have a good night. Much love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

Barn Girl

Dark Horse

Camp Dennison, OH

Poem from a few years back. Hope you like it, C.A. XO 🐴😻

Barn Girl

She watches the ladies
ride. For hours,
she watches.

Keeping

time.

The adults come in the morning.
Breeches and
tall,
leather
boots.

The kids roll in
some
afternoons.
Jeans and half-chaps.
She knows that

together,

what she sees --
what they wear --
is worth
thousands.

Today the high is fifty-two.
Tomorrow looks
similar.
The chestnut mare and Orion, the black,
may
need
sheets.

One grey, dirty, barn cat
loves her.
She pushes the
thing away.

Nine stalls left.
And then the shavings.

She pretends
that the bay one is

hers.

She cleans her
paddock boots. For no reason,
she polishes the toe

until it

shines.

Ryan shakes her hand,
and she goes

home.

C.A. MacConnell

Sneaking Into the Pit

 Soul Coughing, Charlottesville, VA

film b/w, Nikon

Sneaking Into the Pit

One of my biggest claims to fame used to be this:  my ability to weave through packed, wild concert crowds and sneak into the Pit, regardless of where my tickets (or lack of tickets) were. And back in the grunge era, crowds were more like Animal Kingdom, but I was a master at moving beyond the lesser beasts, mainly because I went to so many shows, but also because I was obsessed with ending up in the front row. Always.

First of all, the key was to attend all of the concerts alone. When you're alone, it's easier to be mobile.

Second:  attire. I always wore boots to avoid slipping and to protect my toes when I got stepped on. No purse...only small items that fit snugly in the deep (key factor) pockets of my jeans. A belt -- when you get sweaty, your jeans loosen, and they can even slide off in a mosh Pit. Hair -- well, down, to hide my face, although I did get some hair pulled out, so then I started to braid it. No jewelry, ever. That's just dumb. I can't tell you how many times I saw earrings, nose rings, and eyebrow hoops get yanked out.

And since I'm small and short, that made the snakelike moves easier. Also, I learned that the best way to move was not to wait and be polite, but rather, to wait for the lights to strobe or go down, and then move fast, like a bullet, through arms, shoulders, legs, pierced heads, whatever. Go, go, go.

Drunk people were either the easiest or the hardest to get past. The semi-drunk people were often testy and sometimes downright hostile. I'd throw a big smile, act like I was waving at a friend further ahead, then plow on through. Fast. The very drunk people were easy to pass...I'd just move on, and if they became angry, they usually fell or forgot about it.

If the crowd was really rough, I'd wait until the opening band quit and right at this moment, some people would always leave to go to the bathroom, which created a break in the path. A calm in the ocean, nice.

If the security was watching me, again, the key was to move when the lights were low, and to move fast. If security was catching up to me, I'd dart right or left, which confused them.

If all else failed, I crowd-surfed my way to the front.

I'm surprised I'm alive, but I have to say, I was good at it. If they gave awards for crowd manipulation, I might just get the biggun.

So I'm thinking, now that I've told you my secrets, where does this serve me now? Comes in handy on the highway. And at Kroger's. And at the BMV. And it still comes in handy at shows, from time to time, although I'm picky these days; I go to very few. I'm not as obsessed as I used to be, but I'll always remember this:  if all else fails, let the crowd carry me to the front. Sometimes, it's all right to give in to the madness.

Now that you know my secrets, maybe I'll see you there.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Lost Gloves 37 & 38

 

Lost Glove 37

 

Lost Glove 38

One day, this collection will be worth millions. Ha,

C.A. MacConnell

Getting Lost...or Found?

 Fresh off the presses! :) Just wrote this literally right now, ha. Love, C.A. Hope you like it.

Getting Lost...or Found?

I often get lost. Mainly when I'm walking, or when I'm inside buildings and houses. Small, large, you name it. See, when I visit a friend's house, when it's time to leave, I might forget where the exit is. Usually, I try to see which way someone is leaning so that I can follow the clue/hint toward the exit hall or door. If they don't lean, I keep talking nonsense until some person begins to walk a certain direction, giving me the "go-ahead." Or I shuffle and watch how they act. Do they widen their eyes, which means, Where are you going? Or do they just step forward, relaxed.

It's a maddening game.

I hate, hate to ask. That's what makes me panic -- not the lost part, but the fear that I may have to ask.

If I enter a building from a different direction, I have trouble understanding where the stairs are, and I always have difficulty finding the right room. If I'm at a party and someone tells me where the bathroom is, I may end up in the closet, or I may forget the way back. I get distracted, or I notice a collection of dog figurines, or I see a cool painting, or I stop to visit with the cat, dog, plant, hall mirror, and bobble head collection. Any number of things can take the "directions map" right out of my brain. So I listen for the noise, the rumble of voices, to find the way back. That's usually the ticket.

When I'm driving, I usually have a good sense, unless I'm thinking about true love, and then I just might pass my exit and end up taking the LONG WAY somewhere. But I always get where I need to be, and truly, GPS comes in handy nowadays. Back in the day, it was every man/woman for him/herself. Meaning, my road trips were often exceptional.

When I was very little, I was spending the night at a friend's house, and I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I had no idea how to get back to her room, so I just started wandering around the house. I guess I made some racket, because the friend's mom finally found me in some corridor, and she said, "What are you doing? Go back to bed." I remember thinking, Right, I'd really like to. I just stared at her, not moving. Finally, my friend's mom shook her head and took my hand, leading me back to the right room. Crawling in my sleeping bag, I felt so defeated that I was "caught lost."

I distinctly remember how much I wanted to figure it all out on my own.

When I was in high school, I was a brief member of the cross country team. But one day, when we were supposed to run five miles, I got lost and ended up running eight, and I was still going until I finally flagged down some random car to take me back to school. That's right, a random person. In the bathtub that night, I decided that eight miles and directions were too much trouble, so I quit the team, but the real reason I quit was this:  the whole time I ran, I thought about the horses I should be riding, and I wanted to focus on that sport, not the running. So I did.

So I get lost when I'm anxious, bored, distracted by visuals, or when I want to be somewhere else or be with someone else. It's like my body is saying, No, you are not going the right way, and you are not in the right place, go over here. Or, it's this:  you are not with the right person. Most of the time, it's really this:  I get lost because I'm attuned to the scene around me, and I'm musing about something to write. I see the pictures and stories in things.

I see the whole damn movie sometimes.

I guess when I'm supposed to be paying attention to routes and maps, I think about the sadness in someone's eyes, the unique shade of a woman's hair, the man in the coveralls at the park, the glass earrings I just bought, the brown-eyed boy I once met in Blacksburg, one of my old professors, how I want some gum, my grocery list, the next step for book four. At exit three, my exit, I might think this:  I wonder how I'd look with a septum piercing and Mohawk. By the time I'm at exit five, I've decided to do the piercing, but then I think it might be better to put the money to tattoos. And then I realize I'm too broke for bodily mutilation, damn.

Maybe being lost isn't being lost at all. Maybe it's about becoming "found." Through someone's help or a divine act of Providence, I always end up where I need to be. Maybe not where I'm supposed to be, but I end up where I need to be. Maybe "winning" or being on the "right path" aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Maybe it's the ridiculous route of trying that matters.

It's freezing. I'm going to walk to nowhere anyway. Love to you,

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. Bookmark my blog today for writings everyday! Or I can add you to my email list...see Bio. And as always, my books are on Amazon...GRIFFIN FARM and THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. I will be speaking Thursday at 7:30pm Clifton United Methodist Church, Cincinnati, OH. Talk is free, open to the public.

Time to...

 

In the mood for a page-turner of a mystery set in the 90s?

Time to pick up THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR! 

Love, C.A.

Photo, and a Poem: Holding

Grandfather Cuts Loose the Ponies, by David Govedare

Vantage, Washington

Photo by me, film, Nikon, color.

Hi there, from a while back, revisited. Hope you like the poem. <3, C.A.

Holding

In loving, some say I travel
off-road,
but maybe it's my job to leave
the Earth.

Holding.

Maybe I'm a violet guest
living
in a starched-white diner made
for the others,

unattached,

but dear God
where is my Roman Café.
I could make

more muscles,
or slim down for the shot,
dying by light.

Big.

In loving, some say I travel
off-road.
In loving, I say I'm someone big
like you.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Firehouse

Firehouse

Cincinnati, OH

C.A. MacConnell

Nature's Schoolteacher

Cappy

Nature's Schoolteacher

I believe that with some horses, or maybe all horses, when you approach them for the first time, there exists an extraordinary moment and in that first moment, when you draw near to the animal and perhaps look into the penetrating eye, breathe close to or inside the nose, stand beside the chest, or ride him for the first time, in that remarkable instant, I believe that the horse has the ability to see and feel some or all of your past experiences through flashes of images, scents, and dream-like visions, and if the horse wishes to open up completely, he can sense your entire history as it stands up until the present, and it strikes him with a force; he is suddenly aware of your (and any human's) entire nature -- even the biggest joys and deepest pains -- and the horse knows, right away, on a level man cannot comprehend, what it is that makes you who you are, and drawing from what he knows, the horse reacts accordingly, responding to these senses and visions, whether it be in a positive or negative light, and the crucial, initial moment of connection determines the course of the relationship forever, meaning the dynamic of the bond, and the entire relationship remains the same unless horse or rider (or both), suddenly and strangely shift, opening up to the idea of humility and overall, when both surrender, learn, and let go, there is a partnership of true understanding that is difficult to duplicate.

Each creature is nature's schoolteacher for humankind.

And when it comes to true understanding -- herein enters the idea of the soul mate.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. On another note, I ate too much! I feel like I got run over, ha. Have a good day. Hope you find some love. I'm on the downswing, man. :( C.A.

Photo: Girl, Caymans

 

Girl

Cayman Islands

Took these in 1997. Only have these old scanned versions. Original, color film, Nikon. :)

Grateful for you.
C.A.

Photo: Girl, Sayler Park

Girl

Sayler Park, OH

Took this some years back when I was at a park festival in Sayler Park, which is a beautiful area on the west side of Cincinnati. I was there interviewing Ashley Peacock, a super nice guy who has an incredible voice. Some truly amazing local artists live there. :) One is Alison Shepard. Swung by her house while I was there. A humble, talented, spiritual soul I've always adored.

Photo is film, b/w, Nikon, old school. :)

On another note, nearly every day I get AWESOME feedback on THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. Yesterday was this:  "I was just turning page after page after page. I couldn't stop reading." A page turner, it is. A crafty one. Check it out!

Have a beautiful day,

C.A. MacConnell

Seattle, P.J. Led Me Home

 

More of a 'behind the scenes' look at some of the true story that inspired THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. You can find the book here.

Seattle, P.J. Led Me Home

Seattle, 1996

One day, I was hanging outside of the Showbox Club, sitting on the street, staring at the strippers across the way (they wore robes and stood outside to smoke), and I was seriously considering applying, but my dancing skills were more of the comedic type, rather than sexy, and my body wasn't like theirs, for sure.

In my next life, perhaps I will be long and lithe, like a model. Hope so. Maybe I shouldn't wish that. With my luck, I'll probably come back as a giraffe. Oh well, giraffes are rad.

Anyway, when I glanced up at the Showbox marquee, some unknown band was listed to play that night, but when I investigated further, I found out that it was really Pearl Jam. Apparently, they had planned some small, secret, hometown show to warm up for their No Code tour; the kickoff first gig was scheduled soon at the Key Arena.

Standing in the rain the entire day, I waited in line, and I befriended Jamie, a super-obsessed fan like me. Unfortunately, right when I reached the door...literally, right after the person in front of me went in, the management cut off the tickets. I tried to bust through, but no luck. Man, I felt absolutely broken. That sneaky bastard Jamie did get in, but before he left, he turned around, smiled, and handed me a free ticket to the Key Arena show. Jamie, you rocked, man.

I always went to Pearl Jam shows alone. Actually, I went to most shows alone. At the Key Arena, my seat was close, but it wasn't on the floor, and I couldn't stand to be away from the action. So at a certain moment when the lights flashed, I hopped over rows of chairs, one by one. Sometimes it paid to be small. I was quick and smooth. Then I leaped over a few railings and at some point, when the bouncer was chasing me, I ended up on the floor, and I lost him in the madness. Then I started crowd surfing, and I ended up right in front of the stage.

It was a lot of sweaty work, but I was there.

When I was surfing, I landed on the stage, and my head hit Vedder’s boot. I left a poem there. For some reason, at the time, I always wanted to be his best friend. I guess I thought, I bet that guy would 'get' me. And I didn't have any close friends, so I sure needed one.

Then I landed in the bouncer's arms, and the Seattle security was pretty laid back. If the bouncers caught people, they'd even help some sneak back up front. And in that city, people were respectful in the pits. They helped me up. If I fell, people grabbed me, lifting me back to life, keeping me safe.

It was chaotic, yes, but at the roots of this crazed grunge world, in the place where it began, there existed a certain element of respect and care. But this "feel of respect" didn't necessarily carry over to other shows. In some cities, people were oblivious to safety, and they were mean dogs, and they didn’t care if anyone around lived or died.

Truly, the sound was magnificent that night. In Seattle, they knew how to get things done, for sure. Probably the best Pearl Jam show I ever saw, besides Louisville Gardens, which was rough sound-wise, but it was brilliantly gritty and general admission. Then of course there was Lollapalooza 1992, when Vedder climbed all over the Pavilion and got in trouble with security. All I thought was this:  I like it.

After that Key Arena show, Pearl Jam was on tour, and I decided I needed to be on tour as well. Really, I was broke, stressed out, depressed, hungover all the time, lost, and I needed to head back east, back home, to recover, but I was in denial about all of that. Instead, I told people I was following Pearl Jam.

So in a way, this band led me out west and later, they led me home.

Strange how life works. The universe uses outside sources to catch our attention, to bring us back, to help us along the way. At the time, for me, it was a band. And it made sense. Due to my weird work history and strange life's happenings, I had been around bands, small and large venues, stages, back stages, behind the scenes and such since I was fifteen years old, so for me, it was like second nature to hang out and shoot the shit with whoever.

In fact, even now, sometimes I feel more comfortable in these goofy environments. When you're fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and on, and you're helping to run a large tour, it changes you. I never really thought about it at the time, because it was what I knew, and I was so young.

There were a lot of secrets, and the secrets were respected like the honor of a saint.

Even after attending countless shows and following Pearl Jam around and living in Seattle and hanging out at clubs where they hung out, I've never met any of them in person. At the time, I thought more about the essence of their sound, the scene, the wildness, the movement, the noise, and for sure, the outlet. That was key. I had so much stuffed pain, sadness, and internal rage and when I think about it, if it weren't for that grunge era, I wouldn't have had anywhere to go with my personal chaos.

Those days, I had no real solution, and those beatings we called dancing were my therapy. Without it, I probably wouldn't be here.

I highly respect the journey and the art, but in the end, I believe that we are all people struggling to make it, to connect, to find peace and love.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Underpass.

 

Underpass

Cincinnati, OH 

Love ↓

C.A. MacConnell ↑

Seattle, 'Making It'

 

Day 2. For a behind the scenes look at the real Seattle story that inspired THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, which is available here.

Seattle, 'Making It'

In 1996, when I first arrived in Seattle, I happened to find a balled-up piece of paper on the car floor. On it, I saw the number of a New York friend’s Aunt and Uncle who lived in North Seattle. Out of nowhere, I called and showed up, and they took me in, fed me dinner, and handed me imported beers; they only had a six pack, and I clearly remember craving more.

Actually, I felt panicked. See, back then, I always needed more.

But Aunt and Uncle gave me the whole guest room, and I was stoked, because before that, I’d been sleeping on beaches, forest floors, and mountain sides. Literally, no tent, nothing but my sleeping bag, my body, and the ground. Well, then trusting Aunt and Uncle asked me to house-sit while they went on vacation, so I had a place to stay for another week. Nightly partying downtown at random places, I vaguely remember a smart, skinny boy with dark hair in the picture. Ah, yes, my friend P. He was sweet.

But then he was gone.

Before Aunt and Uncle and the kids returned, I disappeared as well. I did scrawl a half-legible thank you note, but in my world, in those days, there were no real goodbyes.

When I was hanging out in Capitol Hill, I met L. at a yellow-tinted coffee shop, and we hit it off. That girl was always hyped up about something, but she was super friendly, and when I think back on it, she was probably hypo-manic, but she let me stay on her couch for a short while. Certain mornings, we waited in line for food at the Seattle Food Bank. On a good day, there were bagels. On a bad day, there were huge bags of beans that stunk up her whole place when we cooked them. But L.'s roommates hated me.

So one day, I left.

I never saw that girl again, but I can still picture her face -- her dark bob, cropped bangs, pale skin, freckles here and there, and how she was always talking about some self-help seminar. When she talked about it, she had weird, googly eyes.

Alone again, I was sitting at some small, dark, artsy bar, when I saw a flier for a hostel, so I rolled in there with no more than one bag, a few books, my journal, and a guitar. I had enough cash for a few nights, so I paid and checked in. This is what our homes looked like, and this was it -- just 4-6 people in a closet-sized space:



My three roommates constantly rotated from day to day. Some of the guys had seven. Sometimes, people crashed in the kitchen or the office. Often, I slept in the backyard with G., the maintenance man, and Ishy, his dog. He was a heart-close friend. For years after I left Seattle, we were dedicated pen pals. G. is in heaven now:



The original hostel was beyond chaotic – 60 or more people living in the house, and they were mostly all hard party people from all different countries. To give an idea, I remember one girl, C., who stood out because she was semi-normal. Extremely loud, no alone time, lots of music on the back porch.

Sometimes, raucous fun. Other times, terrifying and dangerous.

Nightly, the neighbors complained. Despite the insomnia and noise, I stayed there on and off for months, sometimes paying by the day, or the week, depending on work or no work.

My friend A. lived on the third floor. We shared the same birthday, and I guess he thought of me as his depressed, hang out buddy, and he always found me beer to drink and food to eat. We were together much of the time. The two peas thing. Most days and nights, I sat on the bench outside the hostel, watching the Space Needle elevator go up and down, writing whatever.

Whenever A. saw me sitting there, he’d poke his head out of his third floor window and yell, “You are never going to make it in writing!” Then he’d laugh and come down and we’d play guitars together.

Everyone around wanted to "make it."

Actually, A. was a talented musician and showman, and he was quite handsome, and he could’ve rocked the fame thing. Funny and dark wrapped in one. Maybe he did rock out more later, I dunno. See, there was a fight, and then A. was gone.

Back then, people around me often vanished. Maybe they "made it," or maybe they died, or maybe they found some sense of a path, a solution.

I suppose we all have our ways of navigating this ridiculous thing called life. But today, I guess to me, “making it” has to do with love, inside and out. I'm working on it. Every day, trying.

Making it or whatever,
C.A. MacConnell

Note:  I remember every name and place, but I omit them out of respect for others' privacy.

Seattle Walks

 

To read more about Seattle in the 90s, check out THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my 2017 novel!

and here is a taste of the real story that inspired the novel ...

Seattle Walks

Back in 1996, when I lived in Seattle, each morning, I walked all the way from Queen Anne to Pioneer Square, which was a long haul. Each afternoon, I walked back. It took forever.

I never rode the bus, because I was constantly flat broke. It was ridiculously dangerous, because in those morning hours, it was still dark out, and the route included some filthy, sketchy streets, but I was incredibly lucky. I never had too much trouble, other than that my feet hurt a lot. For months, I took that same dark route, and I mostly sidestepped danger; however, there were some hazy days and nights.

I know now that something happened, but I'm still not sure what it was. In recent years, different scenes have crept up on me in the form of flashbacks, but they are still blurry, and I must say, I'm glad. Overall, I was blessed. Unbelievable.

On the way, early morning, I stumbled into the Five Point Cafe for coffee, a smoke, and sometimes an egg sandwich, if the bartender was in a good mood. "Mickey, like the mouse," he always said. Every day, he shook my hand as if we'd never met, and I kept right up with his rude sarcasm. "Christine, like the car," I always said back. Mickey's left ear was so stretched, he had a cork stuck through it. Probably the worst server I've ever encountered, and he cracked me up, but what a dick.

The Five Point was attached to a Laundromat, so from the bar, I could space out and watch the clothes spin on big screens. It was loud as hell in there -- they often played Soundgarden, even at five a.m. Usually, bands hung out in the back -- funny, tattooed guys still partying from the night before. Huddled in corners, they whispered about gigs, sound systems, bodily fluids, drugs, and songs, and there was the occasional scream, laugh, or yell. Someone was always giving someone else some shit. Sometimes they looked familiar, but mostly, I'd see four or five strange guys dressed in tattered t-shirts and pants littered with pockets and holes. Thinness was common. So were burns, track marks, tats, Mohawks, locks, sweaty heads, tattoos, piercings, and except for me, there were rarely women around. Constantly, they yelled at Mickey, but the band guys never talked to anyone else who wasn't sitting with them; they kept their stories close. Looks, scowls, half-smiles. That was about it.

In those days, there was a certain wall of angst that covered up any and all fear.

On the way out the door, I passed the young Goth kids. Like true vampires, they stayed up all night and slept during the light hours. Clearly, I remember one girl who couldn't have been more than thirteen. She had stick legs and huge, eight ball eyes. Her face was caked with white foundation and clownish, stark black/white makeup. Eyeliner was smeared all over her cheeks. Whenever I saw her, she weirdly stared at me with those looming dark eyes. Nearly purple. She never said a word.

Who knows, maybe she was a vampire. You know, the real thing.

Quickly, with purpose, I kept walking. People asked me for money. Not change. Usually, they asked me for five or twenty bucks. Sometimes rain trickled down, and I never used an umbrella. I just got wet. And so did my backpack -- a weight strapped to my back, one loaded down with clothes, journals, books, and food I'd stolen from the hostel or wherever.

By the time I made it to Pioneer Square, the bicycle taxi boys were getting ready to go, and the pizza man across the street waved and flirted. When I opened the coffee shop, it was quick. Music choice was first, and then I got ready for the breakfast rush. But after the breakfast was over, the regulars started wandering in. A music producer, a slew of musicians, painters, a hair designer with rainbow-colored hair, artists, cartoonists, and people who worked or played at the OK Hotel around the corner, a famous rock joint. It was a wild crew.


On the way home, when I stopped at the Pike Place Market, I watched the random street musicians play, and they were usually so good, they raked in the cash. Many of these street musicians were more talented than the club bands. Out there, playing street music was a whole different ball game, and people were very serious about it. Musicians often fought over the good street corner spots, the money maker locations on the sidewalk. Fist fights, haggling, nasty looks. I was one of these players. At the time, I played in clubs, on the streets, and at the hostel where I lived. I played anytime, anywhere. I practiced constantly, writing song after song.

I thought that maybe the music could save me. Something, anything.

Usually, Seattle afternoons were clear during that summer. About halfway back, I always stopped at Lux coffee shop, where I used my tip money for an Americano that was in a cup the size of a soup bowl. Lux was reddish dark and creepy, and the servers were all assholes, but people kept going back for the abuse.

When I finally returned to the hostel in Queen Anne, I was usually beat, but there was no possible way to get rest. See, there were 60+ people living in the house, and there was usually a party going on somewhere. Even my living space was noisy, dangerous, filthy, and at times, violent. Again, I was incredibly lucky.

My walks lasted for months, but then I couldn’t keep up, because the streets took me by the neck. By late summer, the streets took me over completely.

Mostly, I went to clubs, ran around the streets, and I was hanging out with a music producer and a painter, but I was always in love with someone else. Because back then, true love wasn't really "on the brain."

Because when a person is always in love with "someone else," a person is never really in love at all.

C.A. MacConnell