Archive | December, 2014

Bullies

Ron Briggs (my father), Fred Briggs III, Fred Briggs Jr., Colleen Briggs

Ron Briggs (my father), Fred Briggs III, Fred Briggs Jr., Colleen Briggs

One instruction that my father gave that was wrong, and I had to learn his wrongness the hard way, was to always run from trouble. If someone challenges you to a fight, my father said, run to the nearest police station and report the people who are trying to get you.

My father had a story about a crowd of kids who would follow him and his brother, Freddie, home from their school in Fremont, a neighborhood in Seattle. They lived in Interlake then in a tiny house that has since been turned into a storage facility for Ben Law Appliance. They lived near the dump that is now a mini-golf course. Every day these kids would follow him and his brother home. We started to run home. When the bell rang we were ready and we just ran home as quickly as they could. “Those kids never got us.” I tried to apply my father rule growing up.

In elementary school in Fall City I was the weird kid and because I’d grown up with those kids they accepted me for what I was: the weird kid. I wore a velour sweater in brown and orange colors. I had a massive Beatles style bowl cut. I wore a blue hoodie on the playground and played with my best friends Wyatt, an asthmatic, and Sam Sudore. Sam’s father was a hairdresser and owned a couple of hair salons. Wyatt’s dad was a dairy farmer.

Most of the other kids in the school dads fell trees for Weyerhaeuser. Their Moms’ worked as waitresses. That’s what my Mom did too.My dad was the local pot dealer. Our dad’s had the traditional non-traditional jobs of rural Washington State. Continue Reading →

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Pattern of Travel in the Space Where I Live

359-001-Map

Boxes and boxes of places.

During the week I don’t leave the routes of my routines through my neighborhood. Everything that happens beyond the limits of those tunnels happens beyond me. An alarm wakes me in the morning against my better judgment. Lately I have been stretching to help me wake in a positive mood. I reach my arms toward the drapes and make a kind of capital V with my arms. I roll my palms toward the sky. I wait for a positive feeling to wash over me, and yet it doesn’t really. Instead I unscramble from the fetal position I was sleeping in during the night and force my arms into a shape until the blood starts to flow and then I am ready to make coffee. I brew coffee while I write. And then I drink it while sitting in the light of a SAD lamp, and continue to write.

The rush of caffeine and10,000 lux wide-spectrum light usually gets me functional enough to take a shower and then drive to the Park & Ride at the Methodist church parking lot across from the Kent park. Every morning the same cars are parked in essentially the same spots. There is some random variation of sequence, but the ingredients of the Toyotas, a Lexus, and several makes of Nissan remains the same. I climb into the bus and issue the driver my OrcaCard which logs the transaction, and later I can find the monotonous row of these times on the Sound Transit web site documenting my toing-and-frowing from work. Continue Reading →

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