Writings Of Tessa

Written Aug 3, while I was busking in Pike Place Market, Seattle.

An old woman carrys a ziplock bag contianing tissues. Middle-adged man tells me about Weezer ID's fiddle festival. Young kids creep up clutching money, than scamper away, ignoring thanks. A teenage girl comments to her friend, glaring at the money in my case, than brightsmiles as we catch eyes. I'd forgptten about the money watchers, but, like before (it comes back to me now), I can't blame them. The $1 bills are mounding.

Thirty one-doller bills in an hour. I'd forgotten this appearence of wealth. I've also forgotten Gillian's Reel, one of my favorites. These summers are all so alike - the same tunes, the seemingly same crowd, same workers at the market fish counter, same bow-hair shedding rosin as it rebounds off a downbeat.

I like the market. Here, I float. Between responsibility and freedom. Self-sustanance and the ultimate dependance on others. Between worker and watcher. Between straight-laced and alternitive there is a place for eccentric.

Let this place's grime stay with me, beneath my fingernails. It is made of honest work and wide eyes.