in other people's apartments.
playing roulette.
To force discipline and fitness upon myself, one night a few weeks ago, I manically signed up for like seven trail races. So I only had myself to blame when I had to wake up at 6am on Saturday, November 7th to drive an hour to run 13 miles. A half-marathon. The longest I’ve run in… god, I can’t remember. Even when Evan and I did that marathon relay, I somehow got out of running half a marathon.
The race along the Middle Fork of the Snoqualmie River was absolutely gorgeous and remote.
The tail was single-track and a convoluted map of two different out-and-backs, which meant that I hung on to what the trail felt like, trying to envision what it would feel like the opposite way. I had to navigate people from both directions. (do I move off the trail? do they move? do we both do a dosey-doe and then curtsy to each other as we forge forward our separate ways?) Running back and forth and trying to remember and hoping to push myself, but not too far, felt exactly right for where I am right now.
I kept looking for Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service. I knew he was in town, because I was going to see him that night in concert—the 20th anniversary tour of two seminal albums for me: The Postal Service’s “Give Up” and the 20th anniversary (the day! October 7th) of “Transatlanticism.” And I know he’s an avid trail runner.
I didn’t see Ben Gibbard. He wasn’t there, because he’s not an idiot who runs a super hard trail race and then goes to put on (spoiler alert) one of the best fucking shows of his life.
But I am—in fact—the idiot who runs the hardest half-marathon of my life and then goes to a concert where I bought floor tickets and would have lots of standing to do through the night.
The race was hard—the hardest half-marathon I’ve done yet. And it was definitely confusing: one point I followed a group of people down a bunch of boulders of a rock slide that ended up being way off route. Even on route, the bobbing and weaving of people became a lot. But there were moments of freedom and moments where I didn’t feel pain, I only felt pride and I looked out into this beautiful place and put my arms out in happiness.
Also, I got a free hot dog afterwards.
The other day, Marcelline and I went to watch Evan ride a bike race (yes, we are getting after it lately). He had gotten a ride to the race with other friends and we came later. As we three were all walking to the parking lot at the end of it all, Marcie started asking the “whys.” She is at the age where “why?” is a constant question.
– We’re going to get Papa’s stuff and put it in our car.
– Why?
– Because Papa’s coming home with us.
– Why?
– Because he lives with me.
– But why?
– Well, because I like living with him and we’re married.
– Why?
– Because he’s the love of my life.
And I gazed over at Evan and we sweetly smiled at each other and I thought that this had to be period at the end of this conversation, but Marcie quickly chimed in again…
– But why?
– I dunno, Marce. I feel like dating when we did it was like playing roulette and whoever you landed on when you turned 30 was who you married.
– RACHEL.
Evan wasn’t thrilled with my answer and I was (mostly) kidding! But Marcie did stop asking “why” so mission accomplished.
October 7th was a beautiful night to get a babysitter and go on a date with the love of my life (my lucky roulette landing) to go see bands we love play albums that meant so much to us separately.
Death Cab for Cutie would be playing Transatlanticism through in its entirety and then The Postal Service would play Give Up all the way through. Magic.
We got there as early as we could and just stood on the floor, one row of people behind the closest we could be to the stage. And we decided we’d just camp out there and talk and be with each other. We made the rule that we couldn’t talk about house stuff or about our daughter. We could only talk about other things. (we did have to take a beat and be like, “what the hell are we gonna talk about??”) It was like I was on a real date, with this guy who I think is fantastically hot and kind. And I’m not drinking right now, so it felt like I was on a date from 20 years ago. Like this was 18-year-old Rachel, going to a Death Cab concert with a cute boy… completely sober and wondering if she’ll get Taco Bell afterwards.
Twenty years ago, November 2003, I was a freshman in college at the University of Mary Hardin-Baylor in Belton, Texas. Evan was doing his gap year in Oregon to gain residency for tuition at the University of Oregon in Eugene. We both talked about how much Transatlanticism meant to us. How I had cried singing along to “Tiny Vessels” so many times, because I had finally felt beautiful in college, but I didn’t mean a thing to the boys I had wanted to mean something to.
So one last touch and then you'll go
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more
But it was vile, and it was cheap
And you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me
(also, I miss this time at Stubbs so badly.)
Evan talked about how he would literally drive mountain passes coming back to Oregon from Wyoming and he would drive immediately to a girl’s apartment and she’d skip her morning classes to learn how their bodies worked.
When every Thursday
I'd brave those mountain passes
And you'd skip your early classes
And we'd learn how our bodies worked
I hadn’t made a single (of the hundreds I would in my life) drive over a mountain pass yet, but in my sophomore year of college, I would occasionally catch my roommate skipping her morning classes to hook up with a guy I used to make out with and that made me feel like I was living in a Death Cab song.
I discovered The Postal Service at age 18 as well in Micah’s bedroom, clear off-campus. I met Micah playing ultimate frisbee and loved that he didn’t go to UMHB, did go to church, was tall, played tennis, and loved good music. My friend college friend group got pretty incestuous (there were only so many kids on the Christian campus who liked rock climbing AND indie music), but before the soap opera era, there was Micah and the Postal Service. He had a Give Up poster on his wall.
And he explained to me how the album was made by sending CDs with tracks and vocals through the mail back and for to each other. Thus, The Postal Service. It was the best thing I’d ever heard. We would lay around in his room, make out a bit, talk a bunch, laugh a lot, and listen to “Give Up.” When the album ended, we would start it over.
Smeared black ink
Your palms are sweaty
And I'm barely listening
To last demands
I'm staring at the asphalt wondering
What's buried underneath
Evan would bike to U-Pick farms through Oregon, listening to this album. He would make jam and bake bread. This beautiful 19-year-old soul. I’m sure he laid next to beautiful women with cool arty names and made out with them whilst listening to Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service, but he’s a gentleman who keeps those core memories to himself, let alone would share them with the whole of the internet.
Evan and I fell in love with this music in other people’s apartments. On October 7th, we stood next to each other mere feet away from Ben Gibbard and we held hands and sang along to every single word of two albums we discovered separately, but kept up with together. Ben Gibbard talked about how he wrote every single song to Transatlanticism a mere mile away from where we all were—in his apartment. These songs that meant so much to us about love and heartbreak and bitterness and discovery and a weird amount of songs referencing cars were all written in Seattle—right here. In other people’s apartments.
Evan and I melted into this night. Sang, danced, clapped, cried. We kissed each other. Not the kisses that are a dime-a-dozen for married people—the “have a good day” kiss or a “hey gimme a kiss” kiss or the “goodnight” kiss. No, we kissed. The way you would kiss someone when you were 18-years-old and you would remember, “fuck, I love this person.” That’s how I kissed Evan, surrounded (so closely) by thousands of fellow-middle aged fans and while Ben Gibbard sang his heart out and Jenny Lewis smiled at us.
The entire concert was a time warp. Like sending letters back and forth to yourself through time. Sending a letter to myself in those old apartments. And then being 18 and opening this letter from a loved one. My thumb tearing the top of the envelope. The ink on paper: a message. The show was like reading that letter. Like watching a slow-motion replay of that roulette ball landing on the winning number, nestling in tight to its stopping place. Like finding the mix CD you made for someone you can’t remember. Like running back over a trail you had run before, but running the other way, weaving and bobbing around so many people until you got to where you needed to end up.
A Little Woo:
Burning Ring of Fire: I am a manifesting motherfucker… y’all know this. But for the solar eclipse in Libra on Saturday, October 14th, you just gotta let it happen. It’s called the Ring of Fire eclipse and not only should it look kinda cool, but it should do some cool stuff to the stars. Let the Universe shake some stuff around. Some stuff will fall off the shelves and break, but others will hake free and you’ll realize you actually want to use those dusty tools. Trust what’s happening. Tune in to figure it out. My Taurus horoscope is being too real about it:
On Oct. 14, the Libra solar eclipse will initiate beneficial beginnings in the area of habits, routines, and rituals in your birth chart. You’re constantly on the hunt for pleasurable endeavors, even in the smallest of ways, so you’ll be urged to embrace the satisfactions that come from the most mundane parts of your world. This could look like enrolling in a new Pilates class, or setting time aside for socializing with your colleagues after work. While you’re typically a fan of treating yourself in big ways, this eclipse will be an opportunity to find joy in what you’d usually overlook.
Read yours here.
Quick Hits:
Jam of the Week: Sleater-Kinney – Hell.
(Sleater-Kinney is BACK. and I’m obsessed with the genius of Miranda July in this video. I want to be her. I bring Nobody Belongs Here More Than You out every time I’m at a loss for creativity. this video isn’t for everyone and seriously NSFW, but who the hell is working at an office these days?)
How To Make Time Slow Down.
(THIS. this is what we did this summer. people keep being like, “oh damn, you’re back… that was quick.” but it was a lifetime. it was everything and everlong.)I’m Into This Book.
(for months, my Kindle ads kept telling me I should read it and then my BFF got the rec halfway out her mouth and I bought it. I’m loving it.)I Want This (NFS) Lamp So Bad.
(we like eyes around this family—esp singular ones.)(I feel so lucky to have been at her last game with my daughter—Evan made that happen.)
Okay, But This Is My Most Played Song Lately.
(I just need y’all to know I’m not only an indie-music snob… I’m also a pop-music slut. driving back from my half-marathon, I literally listened to this song eight times in a row.)
Haha Am I Talking About Ben Gibbard Too Much?
(don’t care!)
This Gets Funnier With Each Watch.
(and I cannot stop watching it.)
I love these times with you on Tuesdays. Thank you for being here. Sharing this newsletter with your friends (or enemies, if you hate it) really helps—so think about it!
xxo,
rachel.
Enjoying your essays, Rachel!