My Writings

Olympia

(Written 1998)

Living in Olympia is like dying in the arms of your drowned lover. There are many stories about someone who stares off to sea, at where their beloved sank into oblivion. They start dreaming of being with their beloved. One day they simply do not awaken, their lungs filled with water. Or they walk out into the sea, and are met by a kelp encrusted corpse. By the time they see the horror for what it is, it is too late. Living in Olympia is like that.

There is a curse on this town. Driving on I-5 through Tumwater, one passes the sign for the Olympia Brewery, “It’s the Water,” proudly proclaiming to passing motorists, and it’s true. The curse revolves around the drinking supply. When I first heard of the curse, I was amused. Then I noticed that the curse was accurate. You will never leave Olympia should you drink the water. If you do, you will always come back.

A friend of mine packed his bags a couple of years ago. He left for Vegas. He never wanted to return to this pathetic little town. He was back within two weeks. He missed the rain. Or another friend, who moved to Montana, never wanting to set foot in Washington again. He, too, has returned. Then there are the countless people

who can barely afford to make the rent payment, much less actually move. The longest I’ve seen anyone leave for is a couple of years. Everyone returns to Olympia.

The sad thing is that this town has nothing really to offer for those who are neither college students nor politicians. Thriving night life? A hub of culture for the Pacific Northwest? Career enrichment?

Yet even I like Olympia. I like the quiet. I like the rain. The humidity factor is such that an asthmatic is literally drowning slowly. Most of the people here are certifiable, which makes for interesting conversations at bus stops. The town is so small, you can’t really go anywhere without bumping into people you know. Next week on As the Stomach Turns…

Don’t believe me? Then do this. If you live in Olympia, leave and never return.

Ever. Not to visit. Not for anything. See how easy it is. Count the days before you miss the rain, miss the artesian well.

There is an odd, bittersweet quality to this town. Even as I know I should leave, if only for my health, I don’t want to. There is something compelling about the deserted streets, the inadequate bus service that forces one to walk. But when I’ve been in a car full

of people talking loudly, returning to Oly’s comforting arms from adventures in the north, everyone goes silent when the city borders approach. Everyone knows that they are returning to a beautiful corpse.

-Return to my homepage.

-Go to Camp Amazon.