May 16th found my sister and I carefully stepping through Japanese gardens in Portland, Oregon:
On the 7th of May, my aunt, uncle, and I drifted across the high desert to an old barn that took snapshots of us as we endeavored:
Laughing when the sun comes out. Terrestrial and looking to land. The night spins glorious and warm; [we] are left with nothing but the ashes of a lived day — some sort of celebration still dancing haptic in the mind. This tree looms, tearing your attentions away from the lesser and indiscriminate. The page spools before the writer like a slate or an apparition unfulfilled. I attempt simple languages felled from branches more knowledgeable than mine. You be the judge.
The Freemont Bridge:
What are you going to do? Words lining the selfish halls of the brain, ringing distant bells of truth that always seems understandable but beyond reach like Dylan on speakers in another room. The night not hollow, but still empty, the city being given definition by those hacking out lives within it. Buildings loom like paintings or squat crows tethered to city blocks and not power lines. The camera is steadied, the lens achieving envied focus. You can feel the sliding, electric buzz of human occupation. Lights dim, flicker, nod, shut off completely, and then are renewed. There may be a woman at the window, her fingers pressed lightly to the glass as if it were thin ice. Heartbreak for the moment. Maybe a man sits in a chair facing west. He has watched the sun set, the town now assuming the light of a no longer sun. Night forces the glow to come from within. Trace vestiges of heat and capacity murmuring down streets and alleys. All roads lead to all other roads.
Between. Night. Day. Portland, Oregon:
Cheap silver pocket cameras and trains to all points south. Specifically, California:
Kelly Point Park, Portland, Oregon:
