I sat down to write this, my hand moving over the keyboard, and my index finger (I poke at a furious speed) began to press down the 'I' when the phone rang with a wrong number. It's a minor inconvenience, but now everything feels like an epic struggle against some unseen force. every foot I place in front of me is met with a fallen power line, or a wall, there are obstacles everywhere and hard decisions to make. The decisions aren't always simple ones either, they prove to be massive lumbering concerns over how I perceive my surroundings, how I regard my plans for the future and how I accept or deny the outcomes of my actions against the wishes of the people near me. So it was the phone, before that an employee came bustling out needing their "g'nights" and acknowledgements, before that the customer looking for assistance, before that a new catch-22 in my orders for work, before that it was my car breaking, before that, before that, before that. I have been back a single day, most of which I spent asleep, yet the few hours I have been awake have been a yawning cavernous bore.
Time to get down to business with the where and why for of the bore; you see I went on vacation to Portland, in the land of Oregon. I went for a number of reasons, first and foremost was that I have friends there, friends I have a terrible tendency to neglect, secondly I wished to make a quick inspection of the place. The inspection was to help me decide if I might be intrigued by moving there. You see most people I know have been there and rather enjoyed it, and often jokingly suggested I go there, I felt differently. You see the town I live in, and have lived in for 25 years is perfectly acceptable, as in it is never too hot or too cold, never changes through the year, is caught between two more famous cities and has a number of little commodities to keep its children in place. I have traveled abroad quite a few times, to other counties, other country's, other places than home, and some of them were better than others but none of them ever seemed better suited to me. In essence even though I loved San Francisco the bustling big city noise turned me off, and the rural North Bay towns were too plain and unwelcoming. London was too hard to get into, then became too totalitarian, Vegas is simply a place you don't live, and Aptos, though beautiful still only said to me "When you've run out of places to go come here." No one place demanded my presence, no place disarmed me and demanded my company. I loved no city enough to make it home. I heartily expected Portland to disappoint as a whole, certainly my friends loved it, but if I did every single thing my friends said I would hardly be myself, my forced individualism would be lost.
I flew there, with a connection in San Francisco. My plane rattled, the angle of our climb made me uncomfortable, not to mention the few moments I swear I heard the engine conk out. I had a temporary fear in me of flying, it wasn't that I thought we would crash, rather I had been waiting so long for an adventure or vacation that I half expected this to be the chance destiny took to kill me tragically at 25 and rob me of all those other adventures I hadn't started on. Even though I looked out the window and watched the earths curve rolling further and further along. The ground was golden, mountainous in places, little green hillocks where a few trees grew sprang up here and there, it was after all California and California looks like this in most places. As we flew and the scenery continued to underwhelm we came to a large collection of clouds, and by large I mean that the whole of the surface of the earth was obscured by a flat foamy white, rather a lot like a cup of coffee or glass of beer. This white went on seemingly forever, my eyes always fixed down below, because by my estimation we should have been over Oregon, and yet I still had no feel of its scope or appearance. The plane finally began its descent, which lasted an eternity, we hit those white clouds and remained in them for well over fifteen minutes, circling, banking careening up and down, but never breaking below them. Naturally my fear kicked in, I remembered a hectic landing at LAX, rain slapped the windows and planes skimmed by us too close to count ourselves as truly safe. I also pictured langoliers, hovering at the edge of perception waiting to eat existence, though I was comforted by the virtue of there being simply too many people on the plane to all have been asleep.
At last, with unexpected speed we exploded below the cloud line, and I was taken aback. There below me was the Columbia river, and trees, tall strong trees and in seemingly endless supply. I looked as far to the sides as I could and there it also stretched, when the dirt would claw up it would appear as a dark brown, the colors mingled and painted my eyes with such splendor I could hardly believe such a place were true. The plane landed and I felt unaccustomed already, as I always felt when I visited new places, I had no clue what was here and i grew deeply mistrustful of the people and surroundings, what I found wonderful on the plane was now hidden behind air traffic control towers and freeway onramps, I may as well have been in any airport in any city in the world.
In the week I stayed there, in the heart beat it took for me to land then leave, to say I loved the place is too timid a word. Everything was matched against me, the streets, the buildings, the people and their nature clamored at my attention and begged me to let them in. Never have I been treated so well as a stranger, which to some may mean I have not been enough places, but regardless of traveling to every city and town in the world to be treated with such an openness is unexpected. Ventura asks from you that you don't make too much noise, that you keep the arm waving to a minimum and maintain their quaint seaside appearance, in Portland I couldn't wave my arms wide enough. It was to me the difference of Bergerac to Paris, the small town, all of its fields and cobblers gave way to a bright artistic hive, bustling with people, odd beautiful and individual people. I felt at times to be blending in, to be obscured behind a shade of more extravagant figures, which shouted to me to make my voice louder, my actions more daring, to call up my old stage presence and fill every available space with color and bravado so I would stand out. I sat at cafes, ate at bakeries, sipped at bars and drenched myself below waterfalls and storm fronts. The art flowed like a river from the houses and shops, it lapped at the buildings, appearing on the sidewalks, the walls, a high watermark was everywhere, manifested as it was by a painting of a rabbit, or stenciled graffiti. Yet no one came to scrub it down, to my shock it was seemingly encouraged by a lack of interest, to my greater surprise the artists would collect on the streets on a specific day each month and hock their crafts.
I was greeted, questioned and gawked at, and to every direction was the trees and earth, the air crisp and warm, cleaner perhaps than i had ever known air to be. The city is split it seemed, carved in two between the more 'city' like South side and the more urban North side. In the South was the art museums and strange shops you would expect in any city, but here too I was caught by surprise. Their art gallery was protected by a larger than life statue of Theodore Roosevelt, bearing this inscription...
"He was found faithful over a few things and he was made ruler over many; he cut his own trail clean and straight and millions followed him toward the light. He was frail; he made himself a tower of strength. He was timid; he made himself a lion of courage. He was a dreamer; he became one of the great doers of all time. Men put their trust in him; found a champion in him; kings stood in awe of him, but children made him their playmate. He broke a nation's slumber with his cry, and it rose up. He touched the eyes of blind men with a flame that gave them vision. Souls became swords through him; swords became servants of God. He was loyal to his country and he exacted loyalty; he loved many lands, but he loved his own best. He was terrible in battle, but tender to the weak; joyous and tireless, being free from self-pity; clean with a cleanness that cleansed the air like a gale. His courtesy knew no wealth, no class; his friendship, no creed or color or race. His courage stood every onslaught of savage beast and ruthless man, of loneliness, of victory, of defeat. His mind was eager, his heart was true, his body and spirit, defiant of obstacles, ready to meet what might come. He fought injustice and tyranny; bore sorrow gallantly; loved all nature, bleak spaces and hardy companions, hazardous adventure and the zest of battle. Wherever he went he carried his own pack; and in the uttermost parts of the earth he kept his conscience for his guide."
I mean Jesus Christ, I could spend a lifetime trying to earn that kind of write up, if anything my life will be spent attempting to live up to such a standard, even though, unlike T.R., I am a frail human and he a shining pillar lost to history.
The art museum was odd, it had its displays in front of people, not so much the paintings I mean, but rather the sculptures. The gallery depicting ancient Chinese and Japanese art deemed it acceptable to place their statues outside of glass, with no ropes to keep busy fingers from them, merely signs saying "please do not touch". I left an offering to Ganesha, a little bowl of money and candy sat before his trunked image. The gallery gave way to mysterious places underneath, hallways slinked downwards then up again, past skylights and staircases until you found yourself in another gallery. A gallery hidden within a gallery, secreted away and off of maps.
Then there was the book store, a fortress of letters, a temple of bindings and sweet smelling pages in the middle of the city. It was a city block, one city block and three stories tall, filled with books, books on everything, books by anyone. I found T.E. Lawrence's 'Revolt in the Desert', the first American edition there, for 8 dollars. There were rare books as well, one for over 100,000 dollars. It was huge and terrifying, I simply could not call on the mental reserves to pick through it and find everything i wanted. I felt the need to contain all of its knowledge, I could sit and look through a book about the rise and fall of Spain's empire, then jump to an oral history of rock and roll, then running downstairs I could read every religious work known to man, before throwing up my arms and leafing through all of the authors I neglected to read over all the years i should have read them.
With that and a million other reasons snatched from every second of every day I found myself unable to see my poor body any place else. Se meager every other locale seemed now, so hollow and unwelcoming by comparison. Ventura offered me familiarity in return for a life of quiet desperation, Portland promised me color and possibility, and all she wanted of me was a character in her play. What am I but an actor, a part in this play, I have found my stage, my canvass and my page all in one, i am called away to a higher goal now, to adventures beyond any navigable shore. Away from Ventura, she sinks her fangs in me a little deeper every day, promising me a quiet patch of green, in a forgotten little cemetery. No, no! I shall strip away the weaknesses, the failures of character, the harms and fouls I have collected. I will strive to those perfect ideals I once held so dear and hold onto to innocence and virtue. I am through with this little life, I found it too easy to fall into line with everyone else, to accept that I was past great things, to tell stories of old glories, no I will take my days by the throat there, and wring the glory from them, no more dusty stories, I shall make new ones! I will do it so when my life is through and death my grinning foe brings about the final curtain on me, I will sweep away the clouds and stars with a gesture to pick my new home, I will take one thing unspoiled with me, one thing unspoiled and perfect, Portland will give me my panache!
