Rain, rain, go away...Stuck.

Rain, rain, go away...well, I would if I could but instead I'm sitting in a parking lot on I-405.

I live in Seattle, WA. Annually, the city receives 36 inches of rainfall--three feet, with an added 9 inches of snow. In other words, it's a rather moist place, like London, though less drippy than New York City, whose citizens get to wade through about 45 inches of precipitation a year, 28 inches of that, snow.

Is rain a stranger to Seattle? A purely meaningless, rhetorical question to be sure. But when I'm stuck in traffic on a stalled freeway, watching raindrops splash and ooze over my car hood, I'm not so sure. For some reason I simply cannot fathom, Seattlites become inexplicably freaked out every time it starts to freakin' rain. I have tried to reason this one out--perhaps they are all admiring the rain and therefore need to slow down? They left two hours early that day just for the scenic experience, for time listening to their favorite rainy day Ipod playlist? They're all from California?

I just don't know. The facts don't hold, it makes no sense. We see rain almost every day of the fall/winter months--not torrential downpour either, mostly just gentle sprinkling from a garden watering can.

Regardless, somehow rain continues to shock and amaze us. If it seems like we spend a lot of time absolutely incredulous, we do. So, since reasoning through this conundrum doesn't really reap any rewarding breakthroughs, what can we do to make it better? Come up with good safety techniques for those maniacally sinister rainy days, just waiting to catch you with your feet hanging off the bed, to snatch you unaware.

You're driving in the car, and ploop! A raindrop...

"Oh......NO. Ok, ok, don't panic, we've rehearsed this, let me just slow down, way down, and grab this little guy here...where is it? I thought I put it under my seat...ah yes! Here it is. Oh I'm gonna have to stop for a just a second and put this on without causing an accident. There we go! Bright orange lifejacket to the rescue, I'm gonna be fine..."

You're driving in the car, and plash! A puddle...

"Oh......NO. Ok, ok, don't panic, don't pan--oh my Ga--I think I just hydroplaned a little bit! Braking, braking, ooo not too much, slowly, going slow, ok, ok. Now, where did I put that...? Um...oh yes, good, here it is: my kayak paddle. That way, worst case scenario, I can make it to shore..."

You're driving in the car, and pop! A droplet explodes on your windshield...

"Oh......NO. Well, no worries, hold up, lemme just plug this into my cig lighter, I can smoke later...ok, put it up here on the dash, oh, better move my radar detector over...alright, there we go. In business! This spotlight totally solves everything--just keep raining, son, I can see no matter what. Beacon on the rocks, baby..."

You're driving in the car, and pshhhh! A car drives by and totally sprays you, marking it's territory...

"Oh......NO you didn't. Nice try, buddy, but no score, cause I'm ready. This wetsuit ain't lettin' anything in."

*Did I say driving? I meant diving...

See, now you can pull your normal routine, but feel safer in the end. Plus, you are totally, absolutely, without a doubt, prepared to drive off the end of a pier, into the Puget Sound. You might want to sneak in that SCUBA gear too though, just for convenience.

If you can't beat em,' join em.' Even assist them. For myself, I'm stealing a private helicopter tonight and just overpassing the whole business.

Somebody's Watching Me.

Part I: Somebody’s Watching Me

Directions: Youtube the above title.

This song was originally performed by Rockwell and Michael Jackson, and recently revived by Mysto and Pizzi for the Geico commercial. Think little stack of money with goggle eyes observing from obscure locations. Listen to it.

I'm just an average man with an average life,

I work from nine to five, and hey I pay the price.

All I want is to be left alone in my average home,

But why do I always feel like I'm in the twilight zone?

I always feel like somebody's watching me

And I have no privacy.

I always feel like somebody's watching me;

Tell me, is it just a dream?

When I come home at night,

I bolt the door real tight.

People call me on the phone, I'm trying to avoid.

But can the people on T.V. see me or am I just paranoid?

When I'm in the shower I'm afraid to wash my hair,

Cause I might open my eyes and find someone standing there.

People say I'm crazy, just a little touched.

But maybe showers remind me of Psycho too much…

I always feel like somebody's watching me

And I have no privacy.

I always feel like somebody's watching me;

Tell me, is it just a dream?

I don't know anymore

Are the neighbors watching me?

Well is the mailman watching me?

And I don't feel safe anymore, oh what a mess

I wonder who's watching me now—the IRS?

I always feel like somebody's watching me…

Part II: Wait, is someone watching?

Sure it’s a catchy tune with funny lyrics—I felt drawn to it right away. This sort of telltale bouncing of my head to the beat and a slight smile tucking in the corner of my mouth always signals, “I like this!”

But you know what? I do often feel like someone’s watching me so at the same time, the familiarity of this song’s sentiments totally weirds me out.

You know the feeling—you’re standing in a grocery line somewhere, you’re at the gas station, or your walking down some suburban sidewalk minding your own business when it happens.

It starts as a faint, little voice coming from the perimeters of your mind, somewhere in the southern corners…hey, hey…what’s that? Someone’s… watching you…right now…

I have no idea how this subliminal information finds its way into my consciousness—do I have secret eyes hidden beneath my fuzzy dark hair? Is it some strange byproduct of Hera creating peacock feathers—when she plucked out the 100 eyes of her dead spy Argus and placed them on the tail of her favorite bird? Did some of those 100 pass onto me, through mysteriously potent recessive Greek genes?

If so, how many are there embedded in my scalp? Yuck.

Regardless of how, the alert comes through, and suddenly you feel uncomfortably compelled to look about, “casually,” as if for no other reason but to check out the amazing view around you:

at the grocery store,

“…oh wow, look at those tabloids—my gosh, Oprah’s weight really fluctuates—and gum and overpriced drinks…and oh my—why is that guy with the scraggly moustache on his face in the other check-line staring at me?”

at the gas station,

“…how are gas prices now compared to diesel? Why is diesel more expensive than gas these days, used to be cheaper…why do I care? And why is the lady in the SUV staring at me from across the island without wavering right now? Is there something stuck to my face? Is she telepathically helping me solve the diesel conundrum?”

on a suburban sidewalk,

“…this head wind is really annoying, that’s why I’m running so slow and feel like I’m about to die…wouldn’t that be funny if I tripped and fell on my face—everyone would look…but apparently someone's already anticipated the opportunity, cause that guy driving by is staring at me and hasn’t looked away for the last 6 seconds. May he crash into the scratchy bushes in the median…”

even at Blockbuster,

“…let’s see, what am I in the mood for…drama? Comedy? Documentary?...how many academy awards did this one get? Um...why is that lady across the aisle staring at me through the wire shelving where this movie just sat…I’m going to put it back slowly and cover her face…”

It’s at the point of realizing that someone has in fact been staring at you, eerily confirming your niggling premonition, that you start to inwardly, quietly, and privately freak out.

Part III: Now we’re watching each other.

You stare at each other for a few breaths, only you’re not really breathing, you’re just pretending to so as to appear natural.

You will probably turn, walk away, then bolt and flee for your life. Stalker. You look back just to make sure, not caring one grain if you turn to salt.

IV: SOMEONE will always be watching.

But here’s another flash of inspiration, there’s an ultimate Stalker out there. Remember the last lines of the song? The IRS…the government. Big brother is watching. He is. And we know it, although we prefer not to think on that one too much at all.

Along with bringing us another day to commemorate brave America’s survival of this sinister singular attack on home soil, September 11 also bestowed on her now paranoid (perhaps conveniently?) citizens a very purposeful present, the Patriot Act. Excuse me, the USA Patriot Act: Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism Act of 2001. We’re all at least vaguely familiar with its goal—enhanced security for the nation. Right?

Of course, but the how is a least as important as the what. The Act enables, more than ever before, the government to search telephone, email, medical and financial records, eases up on restrictions to homeland intelligence activities, empowers immigration with greater detainment and deportation, and “lastly,” expands the definition of “domestic terrorism,” therefore enlarging the territory over which law enforcement operates. All well and good for sure—we say yes to safety and security.

But when we said yes, in our fear and trembling, when day turned to ash in New York City, when a pile of rubble reminded us daily of a lurking, hidden internal threat as malignant as cancer, as random as anthrax in the mailbox—when we said yes, did we do so educated about the cost? Because everything comes at a price.

Now somebody’s watching me.

Part IV: Still watching.

Some of the Patriot Act’s original stipulations have been challenged and ruled unconstitutional in Federal Court in favor of civil liberty preservation. Still, knowing that as I sit on my bed, open window to my right, it’s a bit unsettling to really admit that someone might very well be watching me—and I’m not talking about the neighbors. Who knows how—maybe satellite, maybe sensors, maybe key word recognition microphones engrained in the trees—but we are being watched.

Is this a bad thing? Maybe not. After all, it’s a crazy world out there. But I’ll definitely be thinking twice before changing so freely in my own bedroom, before chatting so openly about “world issues” with friends on my cell phone, before writing such liberal blogs…no, not really. And why not?

Part V: No matter who’s watching.

Because I still claim freedom of speech, I still hold to my first amendment rights as I knew them, as I choose to know them, as I hope to continue to enjoy them. I want to say what I think, to worship as I wish, to publish as inspired, to live liberated as our transcendental predecessors propounded, as idealistic as Emerson, Thoreau, and Dickinson may seem now.

I’ve never considered myself intensely patriotic, but when I think about “America,” I’m going with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I have another niggling premonition that tells me that’s what I’ll always be up to, no matter who’s watching me.

Autumn Analogies...my very own form of psychotherapy.

City life and crisp autumn weekends, good.    

Good for various reasons--when I awake with the urge to seek out a flakey, homemade european  pastry, with the urge to nurse a cup of hot coffee, whose steam I know will wisp up into my nose, spreading a light film of humidity on my chin, I know I will able to satisfy these desires.  And it's nice.  

Plans for a little jog later help rationalize the butter.  I will jog from my house, more air into my nose, this time chilled like compost, down to Lake Washington, listening to podcasts from the New Yorker Magazine, hailing from another great city I have never been to.  Instead I content myself with west-coast, northern living.  Seattle.

Every day there's more of a nip in the air, fall is coming and with it, always a sort of melancholy nostalgia for me.  It's the smell of the air--the hints of rotten plants, of dirt, of memory.  I don't know exactly, but somehow during this time of year, memories seem to hang between dark ground and pale sky, just at eye level, bouncing into my brain as I run.  I start remembering other seasons of autumn, those long since past.  Today I thought of fall, my freshman year of college--I distinctly recalled the awkward, "tiny-fish" feeling I had then, so unsure of myself, yet marching my way to classes with everyone else, studying as persistently as it took for those grades, hanging out with my first boyfriend and all the giddy-nerdiness exemplary of such processes.  

So long ago!  

And when I think of that little girl from the past, inevitably I must trace her steps to the present, to who she has become.  Past the many bouts of laughter, the tears, the people who've come and gone, the places left behind, to now--to Seattle, WA, to 25 years old, to Ms. Clark.  

Wow.

It always evokes a sort of sadness for days gone by.  I don't wish them back necessarily, but somehow in their passing, I see the decline of myself as a carefree little girl, I see her transforming through the experiences, bending and sometimes threatening to break.  But we humans aren't made of glass, flexibility defies disintegration.  

Like light into a prism, I see my past self refracted, split, and glowing.  And now, as the evening sun slowly dissolves in spiced autumn air, I understand that its light is not lost, just readjusted, bending round the earth until tomorrow morning.          

Postmodern Art: Beyond...recognition.

Art. [ahrt] –noun

the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance. "Wow, that's an inspiring piece of art!"

Postmodernism. [pohst-mod-er-niz-uhm] –noun

Any of a number of trends or movements in the arts and literature developing in the 1970s in reaction to or rejection of the dogma, principles, or practices of the established, encouraging the use of elements from historical vernacular styles and often playful illusion, decoration, and complexity. "Wow, this author is so postmodern, the narrative comes from all angles..."

Postmodern Art.

Informed, Into-Postmodernism Observer:

"Wow...I am moved by this streak of white paint on the black canvas, conveying distinct undertones of life's brief interlude across a vast void."

Uninformed, Unsuspecting Observer:

"What the...? Security! Vandalism!"

The streak of white paint didn't actually cross a canvas, instead it was wiped along the floor. A long, slightly swerving stretch of regular white paint on concrete. It was slightly swerving because the artist, Peter McCarthy, had painted it in a rather free-form style: with his body.

Titled, "Face Painting of a White Line," McCarthy filmed himself in the act: a can of house paint lying on the floor, McCarthy lying down behind it. As he worms forward, he pushes the can in front of his face (he is facedown), so that it spills, and with his face, torso, legs, and feet, proceeds to drag across the paint, leaving a white smudge behind.

I'm not even joking. It's real, I saw it, and I also almost had to leave a lecture hall tonight because I wasn't sure how long I could stifle my laughter. The short film itself was one piece of art among many strange, strange, strange clips featuring this artist as part of a program called "Pivotal Perspectives: Art 21st Century" at the Seattle Art Museum. I laughed because I was caught completely off guard-what in the world?!

Since then my brain has been trying very earnestly to figure this whole thing out. This is art? This is aesthetic beauty? This is quality, significant production? Only one particular point has broken through: the irony of it all. In any other context, say, in a home, in a public building, or on a park sidewalk, this same act would result in disciplinary action-a scrub brush and carpet cleaner, handcuffs, a new location where all the walls are already white and the clothes too, complimentary padding available upon "request"... But suddenly because it's in an artist's warehouse, executed by a man who makes money off this sort of thing, it's ok, all tucked safely behind the name of art.

I am like, shocked, right now. Can someone hook me up with this job? I'd "face paint" just about anything, I promise. Even you. Depending on who you are...

You perhaps see my point. Please don't misunderstand, I love art. I love unique perspectives, the unexpected, the surprising, the complex, and symbolic-these are the things I thrive on.

But "Face Painting of a White Line?" Really?

Apparently so. So yeah, keep me in mind, all available patrons-I'll paint you a line, write some lyrics upon it, and sing it softly in your ear. References available by request.