My coffee cup sits on a napkin on a table.
A coat of dried coffee,
Shaped like the United States,
Hangs on the side of the cup.
Earlier in the day,
I had knocked my cup,
As it rocked back and fourth,
It sloshed coffee over the rim and onto the table.
“Can I have towel, please. I spilled my coffee.”
Then I ate a cream-filled,
Chocolate-covered donut
And checked my email.
10/30/09
10/22/09
First Portland Road Trip - (Part 1)
Same Trip - Different Worlds (Part 1 of 3)
Being new to the area we enjoy exploring. Last week we drove towards the coast to hike an old inactive volcano and see the
ocean. Jen usually drives because she gets car sick as a passenger (I swear it has nothing to do with my driving). I navigate and play I-pod DJ. Winter, my dog, sticks her head out the window and reads her own version of a map (I'll explain shortly). We live in southeast Portland so we have to navigate our way though a series of city streets and highway interchanges to head west out of the city.
We zig, zag, u-turn and backtrack our way through the city. If there are any govenmant agents following us I’m sure we’ve lost them. Finally, we are heading west out of Portland I begin to gloat internally about ditching Johnny Law. But, my elation is short lived when I remember that these days they track people using satellites. I don’t share our brief life on the lamb with Jen and Winter because they seem wrapped in worlds of their own.
The four-lane road narrows to two as we climb into the Coast Range. Tightly packed underbrush and tall trees line the road and obscure the sight of surrounding terrain. This makes it feel like we are an X-wing flying the trench. Occasionally a clear-cut slashes open the view exposing stumps, sickly bushes and naked ridges. Often a lone tree stands on a ridge. The backlighting of the sky obscures the tree's details leaving a human-like silhouette twisted with radiation sickness. I think it was left standing in the middle of the blast zone so it can warn future generations of vile brethren about the evil of congregating in public places. For some reason I don’t think they’ll listen, repeat offenders never do.
None of this matters to Winter as she hangs her head out the window. She’s reading her version of a map and catching a bu
zz. Her sense of smell approximately 1000 times better than ours so her cues about place come mainly from her nose not her eyes. I can only imagine the individual smells she picks up as we drive along – squirrels making babies, oil dripping from a parked car or, maybe, eggs and fried potatoes wafting from a passing house. Also, these smells are bombarding her at 60 mph, creating sensory hyperactivity and causing her to catch a buzz. I read this in Merle’s Door, which is it great read and has an extensive bibliography for all such claims.
During her olfactory adventures, in a doggy version of a farmer's hanky, Winter occasionally blasts snot out of her nose. Sometimes she gets the back of our neck and shoulders. “Eeeewwwwww. Winter!” is the usual response but we are use to it by now, so our statement is weakened by giddy laughter. I’m not sure if her wagging tail is because she thinks it’s funny she just blew snot on us, we said her name or she can now inhale and smell freely. Probably some combination of the three.
Winter clears her sinuses so incoming smells have an unobstructed path to her olfactory receptors. Because she has never been west of the Rockies she is in new terrain and since the ocean is about 30 miles away I’m sure she smells it. It’s a neuron party in her brain as they absorb new information and spark with new connections. Her eyes look like fireflies when she brings her head in the window and puts it on my shoulder. I am happy she wants to share her world with me.
Being new to the area we enjoy exploring. Last week we drove towards the coast to hike an old inactive volcano and see the
ocean. Jen usually drives because she gets car sick as a passenger (I swear it has nothing to do with my driving). I navigate and play I-pod DJ. Winter, my dog, sticks her head out the window and reads her own version of a map (I'll explain shortly). We live in southeast Portland so we have to navigate our way though a series of city streets and highway interchanges to head west out of the city.We zig, zag, u-turn and backtrack our way through the city. If there are any govenmant agents following us I’m sure we’ve lost them. Finally, we are heading west out of Portland I begin to gloat internally about ditching Johnny Law. But, my elation is short lived when I remember that these days they track people using satellites. I don’t share our brief life on the lamb with Jen and Winter because they seem wrapped in worlds of their own.
The four-lane road narrows to two as we climb into the Coast Range. Tightly packed underbrush and tall trees line the road and obscure the sight of surrounding terrain. This makes it feel like we are an X-wing flying the trench. Occasionally a clear-cut slashes open the view exposing stumps, sickly bushes and naked ridges. Often a lone tree stands on a ridge. The backlighting of the sky obscures the tree's details leaving a human-like silhouette twisted with radiation sickness. I think it was left standing in the middle of the blast zone so it can warn future generations of vile brethren about the evil of congregating in public places. For some reason I don’t think they’ll listen, repeat offenders never do.
None of this matters to Winter as she hangs her head out the window. She’s reading her version of a map and catching a bu
zz. Her sense of smell approximately 1000 times better than ours so her cues about place come mainly from her nose not her eyes. I can only imagine the individual smells she picks up as we drive along – squirrels making babies, oil dripping from a parked car or, maybe, eggs and fried potatoes wafting from a passing house. Also, these smells are bombarding her at 60 mph, creating sensory hyperactivity and causing her to catch a buzz. I read this in Merle’s Door, which is it great read and has an extensive bibliography for all such claims.During her olfactory adventures, in a doggy version of a farmer's hanky, Winter occasionally blasts snot out of her nose. Sometimes she gets the back of our neck and shoulders. “Eeeewwwwww. Winter!” is the usual response but we are use to it by now, so our statement is weakened by giddy laughter. I’m not sure if her wagging tail is because she thinks it’s funny she just blew snot on us, we said her name or she can now inhale and smell freely. Probably some combination of the three.
Winter clears her sinuses so incoming smells have an unobstructed path to her olfactory receptors. Because she has never been west of the Rockies she is in new terrain and since the ocean is about 30 miles away I’m sure she smells it. It’s a neuron party in her brain as they absorb new information and spark with new connections. Her eyes look like fireflies when she brings her head in the window and puts it on my shoulder. I am happy she wants to share her world with me.
10/17/09
Three Weeks in Portland
It seems… not quit real yet.
Everyday we consciously navigate our way through unfamiliar terrain. The effort needed to move effectively burns extra calories. For a place to feel like home I guess it takes routine and comfort generated by familiarity. It takes an ability to move through ones surroundings half aware of them.
There also needs to be some type of connection with an area’s theme or feeling. Like the weather, street names, neighbors or friends, the familiar smile of the checkout girl at the supermarket, avoidance of the same pothole everyday as one makes a right hand turn onto a main artery of the city.
Weather is the best way to develop a connection. This connection can be a conversation between two strangers standing in a coffee line or being in tune with the seasonal weather patterns of a place. As an immigrant to a new city I am building, through daily experience, a time-lapse of local weather patterns. It will take at least four seasons. My body’s seasonal clock is used to a colder and dryer mountain climate. All week it’s been 65 degrees and rainy so, despite what the calendar tells me, I can’t quit feel out what season it should be.
Also, the texture of the air is different here. I can’t quit put my finger on why yet. It seems thick, bulky and persistent. Could be the humidity. Could also be the millions of people thinking, breathing and moving as each one navigates their individual mythos.
The texture of life is different here. In any direction we drive constantly through city. For most of my life I’ve lived in places where I could drive ten minutes and be in the country. Fields and fences line the two-lane road as it contours the mountains’ toes, dipping in and out of draws, cricks and drainages. Here, in the city, we drive on a grid made from overlapping rulers, hemmed in by giant vinyl and felt erasers, zipping along at whatever speed the traffic wants.
Last Wednesday we hiked a nature preserve located within Portland. It is an extinct volcano, one of many in this area. At the top we could see for miles and it was great to see beyond the next stoplight. But everywhere there were houses and power lines and streets crawling through the trees and up the sides of other extinct volcanoes.
I think that’s when it really began its seepage; the idea and the understanding that we are in a new area, in the city. It’ll be a slow and steady seepage, but one day, without me even knowing it, I’ll comprehend that this is my home.
Everyday we consciously navigate our way through unfamiliar terrain. The effort needed to move effectively burns extra calories. For a place to feel like home I guess it takes routine and comfort generated by familiarity. It takes an ability to move through ones surroundings half aware of them.
There also needs to be some type of connection with an area’s theme or feeling. Like the weather, street names, neighbors or friends, the familiar smile of the checkout girl at the supermarket, avoidance of the same pothole everyday as one makes a right hand turn onto a main artery of the city.
Weather is the best way to develop a connection. This connection can be a conversation between two strangers standing in a coffee line or being in tune with the seasonal weather patterns of a place. As an immigrant to a new city I am building, through daily experience, a time-lapse of local weather patterns. It will take at least four seasons. My body’s seasonal clock is used to a colder and dryer mountain climate. All week it’s been 65 degrees and rainy so, despite what the calendar tells me, I can’t quit feel out what season it should be.
Also, the texture of the air is different here. I can’t quit put my finger on why yet. It seems thick, bulky and persistent. Could be the humidity. Could also be the millions of people thinking, breathing and moving as each one navigates their individual mythos.
The texture of life is different here. In any direction we drive constantly through city. For most of my life I’ve lived in places where I could drive ten minutes and be in the country. Fields and fences line the two-lane road as it contours the mountains’ toes, dipping in and out of draws, cricks and drainages. Here, in the city, we drive on a grid made from overlapping rulers, hemmed in by giant vinyl and felt erasers, zipping along at whatever speed the traffic wants.
Last Wednesday we hiked a nature preserve located within Portland. It is an extinct volcano, one of many in this area. At the top we could see for miles and it was great to see beyond the next stoplight. But everywhere there were houses and power lines and streets crawling through the trees and up the sides of other extinct volcanoes.
I think that’s when it really began its seepage; the idea and the understanding that we are in a new area, in the city. It’ll be a slow and steady seepage, but one day, without me even knowing it, I’ll comprehend that this is my home.
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