Peace Is Gauche

When I road tripped to Seattle, I was at peak quar- psycho.  This was late August when the corner towards “normal” felt newly very far away.  LA felt bleak and vacuous or I felt that way. I had recently watched the Charlie Kauffman movie I’M THINKING OF ENDING THINGS, and really resonated with the part where Jessie Buckley’s character is explaining her landscape focused art and how it’s all really about who the person is, its never really about the place and then there’s a beat where Toni Collette’s character who chose to live on a farm, has a pained expression. 

 Los Angeles is a weird place for sure and its very easy to project onto it or  to slip and float along in the mentally ill collective energy that seems to pool here or simply make jokes about Moby all day for the rest of your life. If you are sensitive and don’t have strong boundaries, the insanity is infectious.  I don’t want to mythologize Los Angeles, but most artists are psychic even if its unconscious and having so many psychic antennas walking around can create a lot of ADD addled adults with no boundaries, add on top of that the layer of work being so scarce and random and all I can say is the devil finds work for idle hands! See you all at Mass tomorrow! 

And so in late August of 2020, my idle hands decided I should road trip to Seattle and see some friends, go whale watching, and spend a few days in the Olympic Forest. I chainsmoked the whole first 10 hour ride as the  avocado sandwiches I packed quickly turned into soggy, hot garbage as I listened to Steely Dan and podcasts about how the universe will always save my stupid ass.  The first night was spent in Eureka, CA which was entirely out of my way, but I wanted some coastline driving. Plus, I landed a cheap room at a rather haunting looking inn that I thought might score me some ghost pussy or ghost dick. 

I dropped my bags off in my Victorian suite at the Eagle House and decided to walk to the boardwalk to have dinner. I listened as a fellow outdoor dining couple celebrated some unremarkable anniversary with masked selfies. I ate scallops and looked out at Humboldt Bay where seals were floating on their backs, peacefully.  After dinner I sat on the bench and tried to make contact with the seals as they swam in surrender to the pink sunset. The void in me felt huge. I felt as if I was only a void, but there was serenity in it, the seals were demonstrating. Across from me was a small island with tall trees, and green grass. It looked naked of any people or boats and it seemed out of place amongst the busy harbor. I found a plaque on the railing  of the pier directly opposite of it “Indian Island.” Nothing else. No details. 

A wee bit of googling back in my room and I found the island was the site of a horrific genocide- the Wiyot Massacre where between 80-250 women,  children, and elders were killed by a group of white men who were hired to quietly murder the Wiyots. Gold rush settlers were angry because of an article that had just come out about “Indians stealing cattle” and so a group of “vigilantes” plotted to wipe out the tribe that had welcomed them years before to their territory. 

That night most of the male leaders of the tribe were on the mainland gathering supplies in preparation for World Renewal Day- a ceremonious dance for the new year that lasted for ten days. World Renewal Day is at the center of the Wiyots traditions. Women lead the ceremonies and are said to be given their healing powers at night. The tribe was asleep when the attackers landed on the island, murdering with hatchets and knives- avoiding gun fire so no one on the mainland would intervene. 

Although all the men involved were known as the group “the Humboldt Brigade” (stupid sounding) they were never convicted or condemned. The Wiyot population went from 2000 in 1850 to 200 in 1860. In October 2019, the remaining Wiyots were given the land deed to most of Indian Island, which prior to that was owned by  Eureka. 

Suddenly, I didn’t want to fuck any ghosts that might be slamming beers at the Eagle House. I wanted to get the hell out of there. The dusty air felt heavy as lead and the first night of my trip came with the realization that this trip might not be all roses and ghost sex.

Once in Seattle, I walked around the mostly empty streets of the city. Only people outside were Amazon workers and houseless people. I was giving myself a hard time because I killed a chipmunk in the Redwoods and it broke my heart. I stayed at a completely empty hotel and my body crumpled after two consecutive days of ten hour driving.  The following morning, my friends and I did a little acid and took a boat around Lake Union and later laid on the grass in the sculpture garden. The main thought pinging around my quar -acid-brain  was “everyone is insane”. At first this was frightening, and then deeply comforting as I people watched and giggled to myself and chomped into a squirrel. 

“Everyone is insane and its ok to trust yourself” was the full thought that seemed to beam in the center of my head.  I went back to my hotel room and blasted the Harry Nilsson Popeye soundtrack from 1980. I hypnotized myself, realizing I knew every lyric and danced in the mirror naked to “I yam, What I yam”.

I moved fast, leaving Seattle the next morning to watch Orcas in Friday Harbor. I got lucky and saw a mother orca training her calves to hunt a seal. I also got my first and only speeding ticket that morning while racing to see the whales. There has to be some poetry in that, I’ll leave it up to you to find.  If you’ve never been a lone, silent woman wearing big sunglasses and a horny trench coat on a whale watching boat, I highly recommend the experience. Onward I went to Olympic National Forest where I hiked for 8 hours into the Hoh Rainforest and stayed at a roadside inn that had a stanky emu. The  garbage contents of my mind seemed to grow louder as my nervous system took in the healing aerosols of the Sitka Spruce trees and the Western Red Cedars. 

I extended my trip in Olympic because disappearing into the trees and meditating without a mask felt so good. I also enjoyed a tuna sandwich from Subway while hiking, which I am now aware was actually shredded pig asshole? I decided to swim in Crescent Lake, a beautiful massive glacial lake with crystal blue cold water. I love cold water. If you douse me in it, I will marry you in a heart beat. I floated on my back, looking up at the sky. Finally it came, a glimpse of silence. Bliss. Emptiness. 

I went back to my motel room with my muscles soothed from the ice water and my brain finally letting go. My friend Kelly texted me the story behind Crescent Lake. Legend has it that the Klallam and Quileute tribes fought a bloody battle beneath Mount Storm King. The mountain became rageful  and  plunged a piece of rock from his peak at them. The rock killed the tribes and dammed the river forming Crescent Lake. It was said to be cursed after that and generations of Native Americans would not go near it. Later in 1936, a 35 year old woman, Hallie Illingworth went missing. Four years later they found her body in the lake wrapped in blankets and rope floating on the surface.  Her body was perfectly preserved  due to the cold water and the build up of calciums and salts, which stopped her decomposition. She was the texture of “ivory soap” due to a process called “saponification” that turns fatty acids into a soapy substance. They call her “The Lady of The Lake”.

On my journey home, I drove through the Shasta Trinity Forest and admired the odd, black trees, only to realize once I rolled down my window that they were all newly burned. Just a week later the Zogg Fire would rage through Shasta and the Devils Fires through Oregon. I came back to LA and breathed the El Dorado fire in that originated from a firework at a gender reveal party. Perhaps, finding peace was gauche.