I’m in sweatpants, unshowered and disheveled, drinking coffee and staring out the window trying to imagine a place I’ve never been before. New York. A fable of a place for us West Coasters. The kind of place that has its own atmosphere and gravitational pull. To be honest though, I’ve never been drawn to visit, until now.

In a few hours I’ll start packing a small bag with a single change of clothes, a novel and a book of poems. I’ve been reading and re-reading my poems out loud for quite a while now and have all but a few totally memorized. I’ll get on the plane tonight and arrive tomorrow morning, take a bus to Grand Central and a train a bit north of the city.  I’m sure a nap will be in order and then I’ll join the editors and other authors for the launch reading of By Way Of. It should be a grand time.

If you know folks in or around NYC tell them to come out to the reading tomorrow night at the Katonah Museum of Art. I’m sure we’ll have a good crowd.

This trip will be a bit of a crazy rush, but I hope to at least get a small sense for the magnitude and character of New York. A little teaser to lead me back when time and money aren’t so tight. And remember, if you are in Seattle come out to Hugo House on Tuesday night when I’ll be reading again.

The baby-free evening began in search of parking. Up and down the cumbersome hills of Seattle’s downtown waterfront, double-footing the break and gas to avoid slipping into the cars behind. The roads were slick, the light was dimming and just when frustration peaked, faces reddening with anger, we found the tightest-of-all parking spots, on an incline, across the street from our destination. Phew.

Last night was the monthly art crawl for the many galleries around downtown and Pioneer Square and we joined our friend Pete for the opening of his solo show at Gallery 4Culture. Pete’s “Former Best Friends Forever” explores the relationships of guys who were, at one point, his best friend. The highlight, for me at least, was the blue Chevy S-10 pickup truck sitting prominently at the far wall beyond the entrance. You could climb into the cab, shut the door and hear the audio monologue of an old time friend as though he were in the truck with you. Pete’s voice never entered in, leaving visitors to wonder what he might have felt about the old friends and friendships. From his artist statement, though, it was clear that Pete had some decidedly different memories than his former BFFs.

The gallery bustled. People, I’m sure, had the similar experience of wondering at their own pasts and how that once certain bond of a best friend could, in retrospect, be so fickle.

I also had the added complexity and joy of having a good college friend along who just moved to Seattle. New and old friends mixed and mingled. I smiled, wondering how the evening and coming year would look far down the road.