I attended a writing retreat at the end of July called Writers Weekend which is being renamed Cascade Writers. I have some photos for you, and an exhortation to attend if you have the chance.
In 2010, the retreat managed to continue the “family reunion” atmosphere of the two prior years with the presence of strangers–we didn’t all know each other this time, and yet it felt like we did. We split into two groups for the critique part of the workshop, and I was impressed by such unexpected professionalism in the analyses of my work. This people aren’t all pros yet–but they’re going to be. If I have the cash, I will definitely attend in 2011.
And now, on to the photos:
...Starting with Seamus, Hanzo, and me. Apparently in 1948, before they invented color.
It looks like a stock image in a paranormal YA book cover
I like imagining Hanzo as a were-pitbull a la the old Buster Wylde webcomic.
And the next image in the series is entitled, "Randy Shrugged."
Just kidding. There’s no next picture. Randy Henderson is still there on the beach, holding the moon and shivering. He was yelling, “Come on you guys, someone else do it now–seriously, my arms are getting tired,” but we all laughed and climbed the excessive number of stairs and went to bed. I bet he really has to pee.
On Saturday, I went on a hike with Hanzo and my friends Elizabeth and Studphish (don’t ask, it’s a long story). We were looking for this little-known trail with lots of big sandbars sticking out into the Skagit River, but instead we found ourselves at a derelict concrete factory by an abandoned limestone quarry.
IT. WAS. SO. COOL.
It's a fixer-upper.
Stud was the first to venture inside:
(sing with me) Fat man in a little hole! Fat man in a little hole!
The inside smelled of pee and wet stone, exactly like a real goblin lair! We set about looking for goblins, but mostly we found dangerous holes and graffiti that could have used some copy-editing.
This building was built by the Swiss. Or maybe by Frank Lloyd Wr--Okay, I won't. I won't. Just put down the hammer.
He doesn't see the resemblance.
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My pet archaelogist flew up to Seattle for a couple of days. I was kind of hoping we would go solve mysteries about long-dead people like on Bones, but instead it turns out the only thing she likes more than dead people is dead pennies. We went on a search for machines that ruin U.S. currency for fun and profit, and hit something like eighteen of them in one day.
Our adventures included this hairy little friend:
Cute Japanese dog need diet! He too fat!
We fed him two fistfuls of pennies before his owner noticed we realized he wasn’t going to smear them and stamp them with an image of a bone.
So, I constantly argue about car art with my partner. He thinks cars are beautiful when they’re sleek and subtle, with only minor aftermarket adjustments; I think they’re boring, and you should paint all over them and glue things to them, like kindergarten art projects with wheels. This van, for instance, is the coolest SF-themed vehicle I’ve seen in a long time, but he gave me the “You voted for McCain, didn’t you?” face when I showed it to him.
Whatever. I love you, space van. <3
(Giant) van featuring (tiny) spaceships.
This is my favorite photo from the trip:
This shrunken head is about to sneeze.
I put my phone number against the glass, but it wasn’t interested. Fine, I can take a hint. I know when I’m not withered enough for the popular curiosities to want a piece. At least I’m not a fake, Head! Yeah, you heard me. You and (most) everything else in that display case. A skillful fake that fooled me even after I stood there for three hours and eventually had to be escorted out by security, but a fake all the same. Maybe I’ll make a post about shrunken heads later.
Next, we had dinner in the rotating restaurant at the top of the Space Needle. The restaurant spins around, making a full rotation once ever ~45 minutes, but the walls remain in place. We found a napkin on the windowsill with a conversation on it between two people presumably on opposite sides of the restaurant.
Slowest conversation in Seattle.
Check out the pantspissing gorgeous view from the observation deck.
If you see puke on the camera lens, that was me.
My fear of heights isn’t crippling, which means it’s basically a psychological toy I can use to torment myself when I’ve run out of pranks to play on the people around me.
And speaking of pranks…vandalism isn’t always wrong:
Cyborgs use the crosswalks, too.
That’s public art, man. I would pay extra taxes to have more signs like that.