Inside One of the Tin Cans in the Giant Tin Can Sculpture in the Courtyard of the Cue Apartment Building on Harvard
They’re clearly not meant to be tin cans, but they look like slightly melted tin cans, and crying inside of them would amplify your tears in such a way so that everyone with their windows open onto Cue’s courtyard could hear you and be moved to give you some of their money. Or maybe a squirt of their extremely expensive hand soap. RICH SMITH
35th Avenue
The carotid artery of some North Seattle neighborhoods is in a state of transition. An in-between. Every day walking past 35th Avenue Northeast is a gamble—will the street be closed for road work? Will your bus show up on time? It’s a contentious place these days. Some people want the construction. It’ll add bike lanes, bikers need to be safe, they say. Others spurn it because, to them, it’s an unnecessary nuisance that will rid 35th of vital street parking and wreak havoc on the neighborhood as a whole. The entire debacle feels like your parents are getting divorced all over again and you can’t help but let the animosity, the uncertainty, sit deeply in your bones. Tears well up. Soon, catharsis. Wouldn’t it be nice to peel back that mound of fresh asphalt and finally, finally, weep? NATHALIE GRAHAM
