Somewhere in Beaverton Oregon Newt and I took a walk, in what was once a farming area, now consumed by clumsy urban sprawl. Such a horrid juxtaposition of tacky apartments, bland commercial buildings and lots, restaurants, strip malls - new and old; streets rowed with houses (decades old), neighborhood homes looking a little ragged, though “neighborhood” is too strong a word; of course America’s great artistic and cultural achievement: convenience stores, pimpled the face of an already grotesque landscape only softened by the lush green of the Northwest, and the nostalgic and melancholy appearance of much older buildings: a small rundown farm house with a few remnant shacks associated with it; a great long red building; its roof sagging, perhaps a warehouse once; here and there something the eye can truly rest upon; find tranquility amidst the busy chaos. Newt was, of course, indifferent to the visual blight around us. It wasn’t for him the great joy a forest is, but there were plenty of things to sniff and mark; odorous wonders perhaps, certainly the scents of many new dogs. What a different landscape it was to him, than to me. Along a fence, and the overgrowth of weeds, I noticed a good collection of litter; the ubiquitous sign of people’s detachment from their surroundings and each other; their disempowerment and the erosion of democracy. A people, who are a people, a community of interconnected individuals, who rule over their landscape as equal lords, take ownership and pride in their surroundings, and liter, or trash, strewn about is an insult to them all. What an untidy land we have from sea to shining sea. Outside a small apartment complex, a little boy watched Newt and I walk by. He stood next to the rear hatch of smaller SUV, as his mother came around the other corner of the vehicle to open the hatch. I smiled at the boy, who looked with more intent curiosity at me. Right or wrong, I thought, ‘single mother; lower income; his fate on some many winds of chance.’ The mother, having collected something, closed the hatch, noticed me, and smiled warmly. The weather was overcast. There had been light rains driving there, but the wet took a break for the period when we walked, though it came back later, more earnestly. Our landscape, in the Northwest, has been so altered by western presence, so diminished, but the skies, still perhaps appear the same, as they have for a thousand years. One can still look up to see nature in her moods; occasionally majestic and sublime, but I didn’t look up that day, I looked around. The people around me weren’t unlike the sky. One can still see the majestic and the sublime in their faces; in that spark of consciousness, now matter how laden with the weighty obfuscations of our time: the so called “news,” the mass hysteria and obsession with celebrity pop culture, the dulling affect of primary education, the lethargy of mind our diet of junk bequeaths, and the impotence our antiquated bureaucracy bestows. Yes, in the face of most people one can witness a hope and promise as bright as any raising sun. The man behind the counter of the convenience store chatted friendly with an obvious regular customer. The Hispanic gentleman who helped my friend fit a part to her truck was very kind and conscientious in his work. The Asian woman who served our meal, made a complimentary joke of how well we used our chopsticks; a wealth of smiles and pleasantness as I shopped in Trader Joes. Sure we’re a murderous monkey. Sure we’re disconnected and disempowered. Sure we’re a little lost and confused and our tomorrows are coming faster and faster. Sure we walk amidst a fracture landscape. Sure the things that draw the greatest crowds often serve to divide us the most. Sure…but… It was difficult to write this morning. Stan came in the bookstore; he’s an older man, with nothing to do. He’s one of those people who talks at you, and talks, and talks, and is completely oblivious to anyone’s efforts to do something else. It was painful. Part of me wanted to tell him to shut up and leave me alone, part of me wondered what the point was to listen to someone who can’t tell whether your listening to them or not. Connie endured him. I endured him. Richard endured him. Why; there was nothing in it for us? There were other distractions to my writing. I spent time with my mother, who’s visiting. I went to the Chowder House for Connie to see if anyone was there, I helped Goose and Kevin set up some scaffolding at the Bears, and Jackson talked with me for a bit, but Stan’s talking was the interruption I wrestled with resent for. Often, as I sit at this counter, in Godfathers, wrestle with my desire to write, and my desire to be more human and present with whoever is sitting at the counter. I wrestle; I am my own moody cloudy sky, trying to clear, trying to find the sublime. I’m tired and hungry, right now. My energy for this is expended. Yes, we are a fracture people living on a fractured landscape, but we wrestle, we try to be kind, for kindness sake, for the person who can do nothing for us, for the person who is a distraction from what we want to be doing, and we’re looking for each other, trying to bridge the divide, trying; the minds of humanity trying…now that is a rising sun, a great fusion furnace. Fusion… ??? I’m hungry.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Jun 2013 22:29:06 +0000
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