The day before I left Seattle and everything was pouring – no, actually, the day I left Seattle, and it was pouring, and Broadway was closed off, police blocking everything, but who were these people in pink shirts? I went up to one to ask what was going on – is the AIDS Walk, she said, and she sounded so proud. I wondered what it would be like to feel this way about something called community. I don’t know if it did or didn’t matter that she was probably straight. Or, I know that it mattered, but I’m not sure if this influenced my question exactly, just that I ended up feeling so sad, almost crying, actually crying, almost crying again. I prefer of the actual to the almost. I’m not sure if this is true all the time, but definitely with crying.
Actually, the fact that she was probably straight did influence what I was thinking, because I was thinking about AIDS, and gay men, fags, queers, and do we have anything communal that marks the ways in which we’ve all been impacted? I don’t mean a nonprofit; I don’t think a nonprofit can ever be communal.
But then I’m on the train and the rain is so calming, the rain in the trees and the wind but then later, it’s already the next day, after waking up feeling kind of okay, I slept well I think, but then I go into the sightseeing lounge car with all the windows, but I don’t bring my hat or sunglasses and sure it’s still raining, but I still need the hat and sunglasses because I end up with the horrible headache and then I hate that I’m here, or anywhere, but especially here, because I’m here with this headache.
The train is always this way, I mean it didn’t used to be the headache, but it always goes back and forth from calm to frantic, softness to pain, rest to exhaustion and I’m thinking how there’s something romantic about living in the middle of nowhere with people you love and trust, but who are those people?