Closure of an Era

As a creative writing major at the University of Montana I discovered an important part of my voice. Writing allowed me to sit with my thoughts and articulate a type of truth only uncovered by a slow and thorough reflection and exploration.

I started this blog in college. It is filled with my earlier photography, essay, poetry and lyrical prose Some of it good, some of it not so good. It is the honest development of a writing voice and photographic eye. I had fun experimenting with character, narrative, metaphor and minimalism. I expect to get the hang of this writing and photography thing in about ten more years.

Writing creatively, especially poetry, allowed me to dwell within each word, contemplating its precision through alternate and implied meanings, rhythm, emotional weight and context in the larger work. How often during the day, as we buy coffee and text message, do we think about the subconscious meanings of the words we use?

Some of my writing influences are Jack Kerouac, Ernest Hemingway, Billy Collins, Judy Blunt, Joseph Conrad, Margaret Attwood, David Sedaris, Malcolm Gladwell, Mike England and M. John Fayhee.

I feel this is a completed project, so I won't be adding anything else to this blog. Check out my newer projects over at the Traveler blog.

There’s a monster in my basement

A long time ago...                

I moved him from my bedroom closet        
to his current home                

He likes it there better                
There’s more room to thrash            
when he get’s restless or           
he’s feeling ignored....                
There are also boxes,               
packed with old journals            
and pictures, to riffle through....            
And, also a toilet and shower           
and a few spiders                
for him to name,                
or to eat...                   

I think the basement smell suits him,       
much more than the closet smell,       
where the fresh pheromonic tang       
of my day old shirts and favorite hats        
mixes with the reeking perfume           
of clean laundry,               
of safety,                    
of home...                   

Has been replaced by               
A mucid mix of earth and mold spores        
suspended in fur, rubbed on the skin       
passing in and out of his lungs....       
It’s a more menacing smell because       
it is the murmuring                
of eternity,                    
of patience and                   
of wisdom...                    

I have been trying to starve him            
but, instead of dying                
he fades                    
becoming a translucent specter            
who can only terrorize me            
with his breath and musk           
in the moment between                
shutting off the light                
and closing                    
the basement                    
door...    

Hawthorn Bridge Adrift in Time

The Hawthorn Bridge turns 100 this year and, as a part of the Portland Bridge Festival, I thought I'd share my experience of the bridge.

The span lifts!
(photo copyright 2010 Aaron Schultz)

Part 2 (Part 1 is on my photography blog and is more photo, less lyrical essay)

Stepping onto the Hawthorn Bridge a subtle new reality slowly takes over my awareness. I smell a sentient mix of metal and river. The roadway sings as each car passes. The elegant superstructure latticesses light and oncoming traffic. A soft breeze carrying sun or rain, but always tinted with moisture, caresses my exposed skin. Whizzing bikers pass on my left while tourists lean against the railing and gaze at the river. I feel my identity drift away and a new definition of time and place take over.

My favorite part is when the span lifts as it has been doing for 100 years. First, off in the distance, there is an air horn blast from an approaching boat, usually a tugboat pushing a barge. Then spinning warning lights blink red and a barely tolerable, high-pitched sound repeats. A voice, magnified by loud speakers, says “all pedestrians clear the span and stand behind the white line.” Preceded by a loud bang the span unhitches from the deck and rises. Finally, the barge goes under the bridge and then I see the pilothouse of the tugboat float across the deck, pilots diligently staring forward, shadowed by the span.

Tugboat pilothouse moves under the span
(photo copyright 2010 Aaron Schultz)

But that’s not all. As the powerful engine-wash from the back of the tugboat comes into view and the warning sound continues to chirp, the voice now repeats, “stand clear of the rising gates and behind the white line!” It is always calm and insistent, almost comforting but in total command. Even though I haven’t moved during this production I always double-check my distance to the white line. The bridge shutters softly and the span begins to lower, stopping two feet above the deck so the operator can make sure everything is lined up correctly. Then with a shutter and a bang the bridge reunites. The chirping stops, the gate raise and everybody breaks forward, their business no longer on hold.

At first I thought the voice was a recording, but one day a man ignored the voice and the warning sound and continued to stand in the middle of the span. The voice changed from polite but insistent to annoyed and urgent. As the barge bellowed it’s air horn again and bored towards the Hawthorn Bridge I realized a computer couldn’t change tone like that and somebody actually inhabited the old operators cabin above the bridge. Finally, a lady ran to the middle of the span and tapped the man on the shoulder. Maybe he forgot his hearing aide when he packed for vacation.

The Hawthorn Bridge exists in a reality all it’s own. As I travel across it I feel I am transitioning between worlds and suspended in time. The murky water of the Willamette flows below me, the sky arches above me and Mt Hood gazes from far away while the neighborhoods murmur at my back and the downtown beckons. Surrounding me with its song, smell and gentle swaying, the Hawthorn Bridge makes me want to forget my hearing aide and stare forever at the stream of time.

(Please check out part 1.)

Sunset over the Hawthorn Bridge and downtown Portland
(photo copyright 2010 Aaron Schultz)

My Dog’s Dreams

Does a dog know the difference between awake and dream?

My lady and I crawl into bed, turn on reading lamps and open our reading. Once Winter, my dog, is sure we have settled in for the night, she comes up stairs. The floor creaks loudly as she walks down the hall and into our bedroom. The loud creaking makes Winter sound ten times her size, like a giant guardian coming in to protect our dreams.

The floor at the foot of our bed gives one last huge groan as she lies down. Winter releases a giant sigh, relaxing completely, stretched out on her side. During the day she only snoozes, rarely getting into a deep sleep or REM, because she might be called at any moment to accompany us to the store or on a hike. But at night she can finally keep track of us because we will be in one place for a long time.

About the time I finish my fourth page, Winter begins dreaming. She starts quietly at first, a high-pitched wine, coming from far off in the distance, over a hill. Small twitches move her legs. The movements and vocalizations build quickly. At about page six I hear a muffled, “arr-ooff-ooff, arr-ooff-ooff, arr-ooff-ooff,” and her legs rub the carpet in big, jerky movements. It seems that in her dream Winter is in full sprint, barking furiously and chasing something. I almost always chuckle, thinking of her finally catching that squirrel.

But, her REM movements and vocalizations are muted, seeming to emanate from far off, over a hill, in another world. I know it’s another world because she never barks like that in this one. At most she gives one little excited bark when I throw a stick or a ball. Or, when chasing the big grey squirrel in our back yard, her vocalization is low and quiet like a whispered threat.

(Can you find the Dog in this photo?)

Both species (human and dog) have an amazing ability to read emotions. But, a dog’s world is built around associative memories while human’s world is based mainly on interpretation. The ability to interpret means we have more ways to remember (and imagine) events by adding meaning to these events. Naturally, because humans feel our world contains more meaning and it contains more depth.

But, depth and meaning are a human construction, created by us to give our big brains something to do. We add the meaning to the events of our life. Holidays, birthdays, deaths, and disasters are coated in layers of emotional meaning given to us by culture and personal experience.


Dogs add association to the events their lives. When Winter hears her collar jingle as I pick it up she gets excited because she associates the sound with “it’s time to go somewhere.” She doesn’t care where, she just cares that we are going. But, to me, a collar means identification, decoration, ownership, means of restraint and avoidance of a ticket.

The truth is I don’t know what she dreams. If Winter has the ability to distinguish between awake and sleep I doubt she cares because she doesn’t have the need to understand and interpret everything. Dogs exist in the moment.

So why would it matter whether it’s a dream moment or a waking moment to a dog?

Bucket Boy Speaks!

(This photo and accompanying poem were published by the Bozeman Tributary in October '08)

Holes in Buckets and Barrels
By Aaron Schultz


Traditionalists say
Barrels are more important than buckets
Post industrial versions of fig leaves
Hiding nakedness
Like graffiti on a wall or train
Modern version of pictographs
Telling the story of our culture

Non-traditionalists say
A bucket or a barrel
Or a womb or a coffin
Are all the same when we walk
into the dark of the unknown
Naked like the day we squeal hello
And the day we groan good bye

Each side passes judgment
Forever dancing with each other
Forever afraid the other has the lead
But the unknown haunts each coming step
And Gepetto is in the music
Standing on a barrel
Keeping the beat on a bucket
While our footprints become graffiti
Painting the darkness as it unravels around us


Famous quotes that should have been overheard about buckets:

“Something’s wrong with the moral fabric of the world when people wear buckets on their heads instead of barrels over their bodies.” Pat Roberts

“Buckets – building sand castles and protecting heads since 1899.” – Sears catalogue 1954

“Who needs thumbs when you have a bucket on your head.” – Walt Disney

“We were too poor to afford a real dunce hat so my younger brother had to wear a bucket.” – Pisbury Dough-Boy

“Helmet technology has come a long way since I was a kid.” – Evil Kenevil

“A spatula and a bucket is all you need for a good time.” – Ron Jeremy

A Big Deal About Coffee

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.

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 buzz. 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.