I keep encountering different scenes when I leave my building. First there were fires but then the books arrived. Left open on my stoop. The dog eared pages immediately reveling themselves. The words speaking to writing, reflections and self awareness. Clearly a sign.

This morning it was a half consumed watermelon and white wine bottles next to yet another abandoned book. The crows are thrilled with the meal. I wonder who it is, yet again. Theres another discarded book. I’ve yet to pick it up. Maybe tomorrow.

Later, walking on pine street I pass yet another slump. Heroin or something prescription that mimics it- I can’t tell. It’s par for the hill. Slump this slump that. People passing out everywhere. This slump stands out though. He has a bottle of wine and a watermelon on the sidewalk next to him. I say hello quietly to a blank face and quickly turn the other way. I know him.

I’ve been reading his discarded books.

Now I have a face.

It’s all so fucking surreal. I’m just walking through a movie. Detached. We just keep burning. It’s all burning. I was so angered by it at first. Not for the corporations but for the small businesses that make up my neighborhood. My heart was already broken to see them suffer through quarantine, but then to watch their faces as they saw their dreams burn. My empath side flared. It’s been on high alert for months. I know it’s politically incorrect to express this feeling. People over property, but it doesn’t change my feeling of abject sadness. Perhaps I’m too attached to my neighborhood. Perhaps if it was another neighborhood burning I’d feel it less personally. In fact I know i would. Has anyone considered Queen Anne? Fremont? Ballard is overdue!!

I’ve lived in the middle of chaos for almost two months. Sleepless nights to the sounds of flash bombs, fireworks and tear gas. Hearing multiple gunshots and refreshing Twitter for the latest info gleamed from the scanner and discord watchers. Tear gas – waking me up choking at 3am as it filtered into my windows. The occupation of the neighborhood. Starting off beautiful and dissolving into a war zone. Watching murders on live steam.

Being yelled at for walking down my street. “This isn’t a tourist trap, why are you here?” Me: “because I fucking live here and need groceries” followed by a faint “and fuck off because you’re the fucking tourist” from my mouth. No shame. Get the fuck out with that shit. I lived here while you were attending Bellevue middle school.

It’s been a challenge. Watching it burn. Listening to teach-ins. Learning more about racial bias and the ramifications of red lining. ACAB painted on my car and fires on my doorstep. The sound of choppers causing an instant stiffening in my neck and back. Trying to learn, to stay open, while mentally suffering from living inside of the war zone.

I can only nod and smile. The new normal. Who fucking knows?

It’s nights like these. The sad songs don’t help.