Movement to a New City - Reflected

515, Seattle, WA, ‘the Fairmont’.

I look back on this time, and for me, it’s a learning lesson of how to integrate into a new neighborhood and space, and how to make friends. I look back on what Eric did in the beginning and what I did or didn’t do.

I look back and see the things I would do again and would change.

These shots were taken by Eric Westerlind starting right around the time of the Pussy Walk, just after Trump got elected. 4 years to the date, almost.

I like that Eric took these 35mm. They’re rough, candid. They contain really weird things and moments. Those with people feel really special. The ones without all have meaning. 

It’s fun looking back at the spaces of our apartment, to remember the things we don’t have anymore:
Charlie’s drip bag (our cat). Such a weird thing to hold him down and inject him. Him squirming as Eric learned to hold him. Me pinching his skin and pulling it off his spine. His eventual discomfort. The day he spent passing away. Leaving him in Golden Gardens beside our Christmas tree. Charlie. 

The blanket; such a colorful object that moved around our house for so long. Always so warm, almost too warm. It was sad and weird realizing that I forgot about that blanket. 

The stool with the plant on it. The tall vertical computer setup. That row of books beneath the four-legged stool that we found on a walk. The back of the building, before the security fence was in place. 

Juliette. Shannon. Our friends in their hallway. Goldie. Alyssa in Eric’s shirt. Down by the park. That walk we always did through Judkin’s Park, that Juliette taught us to bike over-energetic pups down; that went down past the school, the African-American Culture museum, across MLK, past the planters we climbed with Riley, through the tunnel that had been white-washed over graffiti, that went all the way out to where you could watch the planes fly overhead during Seafair, making noise and smoke for Lake Washington to swallow up. 

These pictures are out our apartment window. The mug that we don’t have anymore. Eric’s tomatillo salsa. A skull that we’ve given away, found in the upper meadow of Eric’s mom’s, on the day he mowed so long that he got an a-tank tan-line that lasted over a year and a half.

These are the smaller elements of our home; the early moments of friendships. 

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