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Gladstone apartment mornings. Always looking for the Harold bus to get to work. Make sure to walk Wrigley, eat some breakfast. Call the Trimet line to see when the 10 will arrive. Sometimes look out the window, see the bus pull up, still get there in time.
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The Fremont hill of doom. I finally bike all the way up, about 30 blocks of solid incline. This is the most in shape I’ve ever been as a cyclist, back when all of my friends were scrappy as hell, vegetarian, biked everywhere, made zines, played games.
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10am in the middle of the summer and I’m biking across town to play Risk 2210 with Franco and Joe and another Joe. I feel like a kid again, pedalling across town to friends and games. Who needs full time work and all that when I can do this and still make my bills?
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On the phone with Erin. I’m looking for my first ever solo apartment, because she’s planning to live and work in Portland for the summer. I’ve never signed a real lease. I’m going to plan to pay for it myself, just in case. She tells me that if I can afford it, go ahead and get something. We ended up there for over 2 years.
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I’ve got a temp job doing taxes for folks, or rather, printing and assembling documents for them. It’s a process that involves spreading the documents put in a particular way, all the way across a very long counter, and then stapling them into a folder. I see Ursula K. Le Guin is one of their clients. Every time I’m ever looking for work again, I think of this job, of the joy of podcasts all day and the rhythm of stapling and how much it felt like good, hard, honest, appreciated work.
