Something or Other

Portland, Oregon: the land of a whole new something or other. Hairy and pierced, tattooed and smooth and dreaded, the population binges on art and the idea of something ecstatic, fresh, orgasmic. The city creates music like blades of dewey grass and raindrops splashing down cold cement streams; music like some deep water monster, glowing in the light of manmade submarines; music like magic. Magic and misery.

“Life,” she said, “in three words, is: ‘magic and misery.’”

Back then I wondered about mystery and the ebb and flow of evolutionary consciousness, but soon realized only magic can explain the moon. And so I pulled away again, fearing my own incompetence and sense of self. I always find myself pulling away and others see it natural to pull back, like the moon, but I get confused at the demand for someone else’s presence and all I really want is to speak my truth and to make people laugh. Interaction. Speech. Story telling. It’s all the same thing and I’m grateful for the release.

“Yes,” she said, “I still think about you.”