anti:freeze

railroad tracks on the Steel Bridge

It has been 33 days since I last walked along the waterfront. When I lived behind Union Station, the river was immediately east. I used to walk one block down Naito Parkway and cross the Steel Bridge every morning, on my way to the Eastbank Esplanade. I photographed bridges, stared into the river, wrote in my notebooks, and wondered about long-lost friends. I needed the solitude and peace - an escape from the loud music, diesel fumes, and depressing aesthetics of my old apartment building. What I never realized - at least consciously - was how the railroad tracks fenced me in, directed my movements, created literal and metaphorical - physical and imaginary - barriers. I was surrounded on all sides - Union Station to the west, more tracks to the south, the river to the east, and construction sites to the north.

Instead of remaining on the east side of the tracks, I could have walked through my backyard, crossed the pedestrian bridge over the railroad, and headed west into downtown. But I was stricken with a sick feeling of dread just thinking about the journey. It was exhausting - not in a muscular sense, but in a visceral one. Skeletal. Emotional. Spiritual.

Although I only live a few blocks away from my old neighborhood, I no longer visit the river. Instead, I set out every morning for my favorite coffee shop downtown. It is as if I never lived behind Union Station at all. As if I never spent one morning on the Eastbank Esplanade. Even my memories live beyond the tracks.

If there is a geography of isolation, the Yards at Union Station complex has perfected it. How can a downtown apartment complex seem so suburban? So far away from the skyscrapers and coffee shops? Residents are forced to leave the waterfront neighborhood to do anything - buy groceries, rent a movie, visit a park. And because they are forced to leave, they resent it. They turn inward and focus their eyes on the sidewalk as they walk.

More than once, visitors would tell me, your building is like a little island in the city or sorry I am late - it took forever to figure out where you are.

My new neighborhood has everything I need (or want) within walking and psychic distance - health food stores, bakeries, parks, movie rentals, clothing boutiques (albeit far too expensive for my budget), coffee shops, and - my favorite - Powells Books. And yet, because I no longer feel isolated, I also feel more engaged, more willing to venture out and visit other districts across the city. I want to leave, which makes this a lovely place to stay.

me, reflected on the elevator ceiling

The difficulty can be expressed in these terms: On the occasion of certain appearances in the world which seem to me to manifest a look, I apprehend in myself a certain "being-looked-at" with its own structures which refer me to the Other's real existence. But it is possible that I am mistaken; perhaps it was only the wind which shook the bush behind me; in short perhaps these concrete objects did not really manifest a look. In this case what becomes of my certainty that I am looked-at? My shame was in fact shame before somebody. But nobody is there. Does it not thereby become shame before nobody? Since it has posited somebody where there was nobody, does it become a false shame?

- Sartre, Being and Nothingness

my submission for photo friday: tranquility

Monday marks the 12th anniversary of Tammy Zywicki's disappearance. Her body was found several days later, on September 1st, 1992. After all this time, I still cannot help but cry as September approaches, cannot help but think of her, stabbed to death and wrapped in a red blanket, dumped in a ditch along Interstate 44.

I am not alone. More and more people have arrived at my site by searching Tammy's name. Some send emails to say they feel the same sense of connection and loss, even though (like me) they never knew her.

Recently, I learned that the FBI investigation into her kidnapping and murder has - finally - been reactivated. The prime suspect is still Lonnie Bierbodt, a violent felon who died in June 2002. Based on circumstantial evidence, he was questioned and released, but never arrested. Just a few weeks later, the FBI task force was shut down for lack of progress.

This time, I hope the Zywicki family can find justice. And maybe a little peace.

You can read my essay about Tammy Zywicki here.

my submission for photo friday: analog

I have written about this image before, during my Seattle map experiments. It was the first photo that flashed in my mind when I read the analog challenge.

Standing on a rock by the ocean, clutching several small chips of bone - or are they calloused, shredded skin? - in my hand. One by one, I throw the little chips into the water, before you grab my wrist and whisper stop.

You pull my hand toward you, unpeel my fingers, and gasp.

I have a handful of fingernails. Yanked whole from unknown fingers.

I tell you the story of a girl I knew growing up, who believed fingernails were made of ivory. "If fingernails were made of ivory," I told her, "they would all be worth real money, and people would hunt each other."

"People do hunt each other," you say. "And fingernails are worth something to me."

You take them from my hand and cram them beneath your own nails - planting dead skin like small trees.

We dive into the water and kiss.

You stroke my cheek with your fingertip, and I show you my hands. All ten fingernails are missing.

"You just left my own DNA on my face," I say. "Nobody will ever know you were here."