I moved to Seattle from Virginia in October 1992 and I remember being struck by the beauty of all the neon glowing in the rain. So I take pictures for this ongoing series I call Blue Hour. It’s from a line from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story “Babylon Revisited”:
“Outside, the fire-red, gas-blue, ghost-green neon shone smokily through the tranquil rain…he wanted to see the blue hour.”
At the beach, my neighbor, Stanley stopped by. He was exhausted from weeks of houseguests, due to the death of one of his wife’s family’s matriarchs. Stanley said that at the funeral, the matriarch’s husband of 50 years got up and said, “Before you all go saying how much you’ll miss Shirley, let me just say I’ve got the clicker now, and I can eat and sleep whenever I want.”
I fell down laughing, but Stanley said it was a rough crowd. “It got so quiet, you could’ve heard Jesus breathe,” he said.
My Norwegian friend Regnor, who spent his life on boats, told me to go to Seattle Marine and buy these boots. They are Vikings, comfortable as slippers, and I would wear them every day in Seattle if people wouldn’t think I was insane.
At Washaway I have no such concerns. But it always cracks me up when Clam Time comes around and I am suddenly fashionable.
Someone wrote me asking to check on their place which had been getting looted. The thing that really sucks about pirates, here and everywhere, is they rip you off.