Letter to Rachel - Why Don't Women Like Jack Kerouac?

Dear Rachel,

On the Road...

to Portland, KC drives me to the station in the clean Eugene blue denim dream of dreams pine scented sky, a farewell hug and now the open road, which is a pearly painted invitation to the unknown, awaits me.

"Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

The Greyhound just like any other, crying babies, big hipped women resting their fat thighs on my skinny leg, dudes and geeks and old men with maps of Americana resting their eyes on the dusty scratched windows of morning landscape - hills, pasture, cattle, sky, and soon everyone rested and shutting their eyes to the world.

“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”

Stops in Corvalis and Salem, getting out to stretch, leaving the cold bus and the seat next to the john to soak in the warm light of mid morning Oregonian sun. I jump into the past, remembering the uniformed soldiers as we neared the Myanmar border, boarding the bus with large guns in hand, checking passports, but ignoring me, my western face, thankfully, of no interest to them. I see the driver walk glumly past and I leave my Myanmar daydream and reboard, all of the expectant morning time hanging around my neck, patiently awaiting the next haggard stop.

“The bus roared through Indiana cornfields that night; the moon illuminated the ghostly gathered husks; it was almost Halloween. I made the acquaintance of a girl and we necked all the way to Indianapolis. She was nearsighted. When we got off to eat I had to lead her by the hand to the lunch counter. She bought my meals; my sandwiches were all gone. In exchange I told her long stories. ”

Arriving in Portland, I look searchingly for the warehouse slum yards and cracked window factory boulevards, the homes of the poor neglected forgotten, but instead my eyes are soaked in calm beatific streets, clean, salted with sunlight, big white trains scooting along next to bikes and buses.

“...we all must admit that everything is fine and there's no need in the world to worry, and in fact we should realize what it would mean to us to UNDERSTAND that we're not REALLY worried about ANYTHING.”

I get off the bus, stepping into the bright unknown, a half crumpled sheet of written instructions, where all my hopes are pinned, is in my hand. I walk south on SW 6th, all quiet and smiles, as if a fat Buddha sat somewhere looking down from an 8th floor office, grinning and not saying a word.

“Why think about that when all the golden land's ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you're alive to see?”

When I get to Pine Street I ask a lone figure in black leaning against a shadowed highrise which way to SW 5th, and he points left, and I soon find the #12 bus stop, and there ask a grey haired man how much the fare is, and he says, "two, two and a quarter", so I open my bag and find a quarter and a couple bucks and wait a few minutes, soon riding the #12, Portland streets passing by, trees, river, hills with houses glued to sides, and I read my instructions and next thing to stumble upon is a Safeway on 19th Street.

“What difference does it make after all?--anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.”

I spot the Safeway, the stop called is not 19th, but I get off anyways, hoping to see 19 close at hand, a few steps later I see the big one nine and I walk, solitary, along the road, heavy pack on back, vagabond drifter with silent past, unknown future, a gleaming, happy present about to shake my hand.

“Last night I walked clear down to Times Square & just as I arrived I suddenly realized I was a ghost - it was my ghost walking on the sidewalk.”

I pass Uncle John's Grocery and Pizza and know I have arrived. Freeman Street lurks in the shadows, I walk and hear a dog bark, hesitate, turn back, turn forward, finally knock on white door of yellow house....

“Better to sleep in an uncomfortable bed free, than sleep in a comfortable bed unfree.”

Morgan shows me around, a shimmering shrine to the Buddha - painting studio, meditation hall, filtered tap water, the house has it all.

“I just won't sleep, I decided. There were so many other interesting things to do.”

Morgan leaves me with Kona the tiny gray haired dog, and while she lays on the ground, belly up, I eat cherries, a giant, over ripe peach, and a Cliff Bar, sitting comfortably on the patio, which smells of incense and turpentine. My eyes stop to rest upon a carved wooden figurehead hanging on the gate.

“His friends said, "Why do you have that ugly thing hanging there?" and Bull said, "I like it because it's ugly." All his life was in that line.”

Sitting in the afternoon sun, another destination having arrived like a noontime lunch - happy stomach, calm heart, and my socks need washing again.

“Here I was at the end of America...no more land...and nowhere was nowhere to go but back”.

Love, Jim

KC, Casey, and the Oregon Coast

Birds, with Casey and KC in the Distance

KC and Casey

KC in the Wind

Life, turning into dream, misty and irreverent, charged with mystery and abandon - take the plunge, do not fear, the chaos of the universe is watching....

Happy Town

Unusual, happy experiences occur every day in Eugene, and I have been unable to find the words to describe them. I will continue to try to get something down, but for now, just a few pictures...

Eugene Summer Walk

In Eugene, OR, on a late summer day, I hesitate my steps so that I can look closely at two large trees, and the scent they throw down settles firmly into the road. I am walking north on High Street, my destination the downtown library. I watch bikers and runners pass, and to my left something seems out of place. My gaze settles upon a black and white mural which contrasts with the vibrant summer colors which liven the town. I step off the road and wander to the painting, its size and mood unsettling. The European feel and the curving, narrow road which is built upon a hill, closed off by tightly fitted buildings, brings to mind Montmartre, Paris. The solitary figure clad in black, ideas and images filling his lonely jaunt, could be a suburban Sartre who wanders dark alleys dreaming of freedom, or a depressed Van Gogh contemplating the deficiencies of his palette as he nears the entrance to his brother's apartment. Beyond the gray linear lines of the wall, clouds recline against a blue sky and I decide to continue my walk. 

When I cross into the business district I turn left onto Broadway and pass an alley in which a monumental mural teems with color, texture, and shape. I turn into the alley and see a man sitting in a chair, his tired gaze piercing the wall. I saunter over cracked concrete, allowing my eyes to focus on both small and large things. A memory is reflected, a time when I worked in the Chicago Loop. On my lunch hour I would sometimes sit before the Chagall "Four Seasons" mosaic, eating a sandwich and contemplating the rich detail contained in each polished fragment of glass and stone. After many return visits I pieced together the story of the seasons, and to make sense of what is now before me will require the same patience and concentration.

I turn to the man and start a conversation. His name is Hans, and he tells me he is the artist. The mural  is a scene of heroes and villains, a Shakespearean odyssey unfurled upon a forlorn wall. Four youths dressed in black approach, and Hans wanders over to them. I am left alone to ponder the immensity of his creation. Colors and shapes play hide and seek, and I imagine what his hands will create with the remaining white space of his gritty canvas. I notice the clouds again, still reclining against the summer blue. I have a book to return, and the library is only a few blocks away....

Angels, Doorways, Passages

"Life is a balance between throwing out and inviting in. You are just a passage. Share! Give, and more will be given to you. Be a miser, don't give, and less will be given to you because you don't need it." Osho

I have entered a place where...there is light - perhaps a bit of happiness, the absence of fear, a letting go of the desire for... anything. I left the states six months ago, six short months, and I have become something - richer for having given things up, illuminated for having entered a mysterious, dark dream. Without wanting it, yet joyful to experience it - smiles, love, happiness arrive. People speaking words which enter my consciousness like darts hitting a target - Angels, Doorways, Passages. I am passing into something - good or evil, light or dark, I won't choose, I will accept the outcome with open eyes and a tender heart...

Went in search of a guitar today. Walked 1 mile to the Amazon Trail and across the road a man named Phil lives in a small apartment. I knock, he opens. He is a large man with a soft demeanor. I sit on his sofa, picking up the guitar, a cheap strat, but a good color (black). The amp a 15w Fender. I plug in, happy to be holding a guitar in my hands. I strum a few chords and when I slide up the board to play a few blue notes I hear Phil say "wow, nice." He is impressed with my play, even though I am not doing much. I realize at that moment that I have reached a level which is not easily accessible. While I am far from being a competent musician, my confidence holding the instrument, the ease with which my fingers move along the frets, and the occasional sweet blue sound of the strings is something which I could not have achieved without a lot of practice, and I am guessing it is the same for others.

Being in a twilight state of being, events continue to unfold in a quasi-religious drama. Phil questions me about my practice, how I have achieved certain things. I begin to explain and soon realize it sounds like a lesson. I stop myself and decide to buy the guitar. We continue to talk and then Phil offers me a ride to the local music store. Since I want to buy an input cord for the amp, and a set of strings, I accept his friendly offer. As we ride across town I learn a few things about Phil. He is 28 years old, has a son, is divorced. Works at a hospital and goes to seminary school. He plays guitar, mainly strumming, and sold his electric to me because he could not connect with it. He once played triple A baseball, but an injury stopped him from making it to the majors. He has lived in Eugene most of his life, and he loves it - "it rains all the time, but we joke that it is our sun." At the music shop I chat with a female clerk who tells me she once lived in Vegas, and recently moved to Eugene and loves it. The shop sells the input cords but they are out of stock, so I compensate by buying a package of blues strings. Phil buys a set of drum kits for his son. On the way home we agree it would be fun to jam together, and when he drops me at KC's he tells me to call him anytime.

Settling in with the guitar - I study the amp, tune the strings, and do an hour set of blues songs. Holding it, getting the fingers going, creating music - it contains a similar quality to running - sound creating a landscape to move through, thoughts and emotions and blood flowing - angels, doorways, passages hovering, waiting for me, to finally... walk in.

"Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize 'The stars are words' and all innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in this little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it's all in my mind. There's no need for solitude. So love life for what it is, and form no preconceptions whatever in your mind." - Jack Kerouac from Lonesome Traveler

Letter to Rachel - Eugene, When a door opens....

Dear Rachel,

The family left yesterday afternoon, the trip is getting more peculiar with each passing day. The Country Fair is going on this weekend, it is a 3 day event, not like a regular county fair in the midwest, but similar to a Burning Man type of thing. You buy a $20 ticket at Safeway and then get bused out to the grounds, which is a scenic wooded area. KC mentioned something about not minding the nudity?! She had 3 friends drive down from Portland and they set up tents in the backyard, then went to the fair yesterday. Everyone was trying to convince me to go, that it was foolish to miss it, but having just arrived in town I am more interested in just running and walking about, exploring and learning the streets. So I did not go. Last night the three friends came back from the fair, by this time the family had left for the airport to go to France, so it was just me, the dog, goldfish, and the 3 friends. They are all laid back and nice, a bit older than me. One woman, Catherine, showed me her videos of the fair, which were pretty good, lots of hippy type stuff and arts/music. We got to talking and she said if I wanted to visit Portland after Eugene I could stay at her place. I did not think she was serious, but she gave me her card and the next morning she mentioned it again. I told her I did not want to impose, but she said I would not, so I said maybe sometime in September, and she replied she would be visiting her father so I could house sit for a week if I wanted. She lives next to a huge wooded park, according to her it is the largest urban park in the USA, dwarfing Central Park in NYC. She said trail runners love it. I asked if everyone in Oregon is this friendly, or did I just get lucky in meeting KC - haha - KC seems well loved by all. The 3 friends left this morning, so now it is just me, the dog, and 3 gold fish.

I am going to look at a guitar this afternoon.

Went running on the Amazon Trail 2 days ago, which led me to the Ridgeline Trail, which goes up into the wooded hills. I saw a sign warning of bears and cougars, the last piece of advice it gave was "if attacked, fight back" - comforting! So I wended up Spencer Butte, the douglas firs massive. Up and up, but then I made a wrong turn and ended up going in the direction of Mt. Baldy. I turned around and decided not to climb the 2 miles to the summit of Spencer because by that time I had already run 6 miles. This morning I ran Pre's Trail in Alton Baker Park, very scenic and quiet. The Willammette, (wi-lamb-it, I called it the willa-met and KC laughed) which the park is next to, is clean, fast flowing, and gorgeous.

I walked to Safeway yesterday to get some supplies. Everyone I passed was smiling and happy, and just as many people running and biking as driving. I was reminded of the Chevy Chase movie where the town is trying to sell him a house, so they all smile and are friendly and helpful, but it is all a con, haha. I did see one man who was irritated, but it was because of me, I was walking in the middle of the sidewalk, I guess in Oregon bikes can ride on sidewalks, because he said "move to the side, move to the side!".

KC brought me around town yesterday before leaving. We stopped at a bookstore and I bought 4 postcards - I found out there is no sales tax in Oregon - sweet! (just checked my receipt from Safeway, no tax, so saved about $3, which makes up for the slightly more expensive food prices). 5 blocks from the house is an organic store, similar to Strawberry Fields. Lots of good stuff there, I bought Chia seed juice drinks - yum. There are many local beers, I have tried a couple so far, very tasty. Two Indian restaurants within a mile of the house, I went to one on Friday, it was just as good as Bombay Grill.

Nights are cool, days are warm. Catherine told me not to be fooled, once summer is over it will be months and months of gray skies and rain.

Eugene's grade after 4 days - A

Included are some random pics to show you the lay of the land - even the graffiti is happy in Eugene :)

Love, Jim

Arriving in Eugene

Willamette River I

Willamette River II

Where I stopped to read a few pages of Kerouac

Suspension Bridge for Pedestrians

Graffiti

Casey

Letter to Rachel - Holy Hostel

Dear Rachel,

Perfect weather here in Chicago. I have done a lot of walking and running during my two days here. This morning I ran over to the old Meig's Field, called Northerly Island, or Maggie Daily Park. When I got near the Planetarium I could not locate the park and asked passing runners if they knew how to get there. Nobody had heard of it, one guy completely ignored me, another almost got hit by a bike after speaking with me. I walked around without any luck, asked another person who looked just as confused as the others, but when I mentioned it was the old Meig's Field, his face lit up, and said "Oh yeah, it is over that way, but I think it is just a large parking lot". I was not impressed when I heard it was still paved over, but I had gotten that far, so I decided to jog over to it, and found that the guy knew the location, but had obviously never visited. I found a large prairie field, with a single paved bike path looping the center. I saw 3 or 4 bikers on the path, and nobody on the dirt prairie trails. It was nice to have some solitude, and I saw two rabbits and a red winged black bird, which is unheard of in Chicago, haha. I then ran north and stopped at Belmont Harbor. I walked to our old apt and saw that it is going to be a bar called "Revoluzion". I walked into T.I. and bought a breakfast of raspberries, yogurt, Cliff Bar, chocolate milk, chia seed juice (!), banana, and a small bottle of kefir. I took the food back to the park at the harbor and sat in the shaded grass and had a little picnic. I walked to the bus stop in front of Temple Shalom, which is where I used to pick up the bus in the summer's to go to Morningstar. I jumped on a 145 Express and watched the lake go by, remembering the emotions of so many years ago. I got off at my usual stop next to Water Tower Place on Michigan Ave, stopped in the old church one block away and listened to organ music while reading a few proverbs, then I sauntered down the Magnificent Mile and then back to the hostel. I was planning to take a nap but I still had energy, and knowing I had to get up at 2:45am, decided it was best not to nap, so I took the Red Line subway back to Belmont, and walked around looking for an Indian Restaurant. Standard India is no more, and the two other Indian restaurants in the area are also gone. The day before I ate at Hema's Indian restaurant on Clark, which I found by chance, and it was excellent. I decided to walk to it and have lunch there again. By this time I had walked/ran almost 15 miles, so my appetite was getting large. I ordered 2 samosas, sag paneer, rice, naan, and a Coke. I finished everything except a 1/4 of the naan. I was planning to take the bus back to the hostel, since it was 3 miles away, but I still felt good, so started walking, and 90 minutes later made it to the hostel.

About the hostel - clean, fun and polite employees, and my 9 roomies did not make a peep last night. Right now I am in my room and two others are here, and they are asleep at 7:21 pm. I will also soon be sleeping. I was thinking the shared bathroom would be a drag because the entire floor uses the same one, but every time I have been in it, it is has been empty. So my first hostel experience has been a positive one.

Tomorrow I will be in Eugene for a new adventure.

Included are some pictures I made along the way yesterday....

Love, Jim

I Have Seen the Fire - Visual Poem to Las Vegas

Las Vegas Poem - Return to Chaos

Leaving Bangkok and the risk of unknown spaces, I arrive in Los Angeles, wondering if the realm of adventure which I had embraced would remain while under the brightness of a common language and stale culture. The people I encounter in the airport knock my mind and I feel a shiver on my skin - rudeness, aggression, anger, and an ugly sarcasm dents the memories of the easy and slow faces belonging to Thailand and Indonesia. I remember Mo telling me that Chicago was an ugly city, and I projected it onto buildings, streets, and broken gray skies, not recognizing that Mo was perhaps referring to its people. I do not venture past the airport gate, and so miss an opportunity to find a friendly face and other fragments of beauty and kindness, thus leaving my sour impression of LA intact.

A few hours later I am riding a courtesy van through the hot and dusty streets of Las Vegas. The people here have an added cruelty of greed which can be seen lingering in the dull shine of colorless eyes. I am now on home soil, but the land gives no ease or comfort, and I decide to seek it at a poker table. It is the rules which define the game which attract me. Chaos arrives in random cards along with the faces and words, but these are navigated easily enough.

I gaze at the men, anticipation brightening their tired eyes, sitting around the clean, felted table, seeing various cultures shaped into the color and curve of their faces - Asian, Indian, Spanish, European, American, all are seeking solace here, but for varied reasons. I doubt I am the only one who comes not for potential monetary gain, but rather grasping for an odd sense of fulfullment through the discovery of a world where correct decisions and noble ambitions are rewarded with a peaceful mind and a quiet heart. I have learned that to accept the cards and the faces which are delivered to this morning, church-like room, will bring, if only for a few moments, meaning and happiness, a potential Toaist lesson dealt with every hand.

Luck or bad luck arises from the attitudes and reflections of my mind. As the cards arrive and leave, I experience a wide range of images and colors, pushing away fear, greed, anger, as I would a poor hand into the muck. Even with a set of rules in place, each moment allows for a foolish act or word to pass from me to the table. If I remain silent too long, throw every hand away, the faces which gaze upon me will make note. It occurs to me that I could be dealt weak cards for an eternity, it is within the range of possibility, but as likely as flipping a coin which comes up heads forever. Perhaps every person at the table hates the sight of me. I check myself and find no hatred for the faces which surround me. I look at my cards, throw them away. I say nothing. As the game continues to be shuffled and dealt, words are exchanged, which are hazards to my freedom. A single response leads to another, and expectations soon arise. To remain unaffected and free, I push the closeness of the words and people away. I imagine this to be the point where the hatred begins - am I too good to speak, to become part of the group?

My thoughts are interupted by the arrival of an ace and a king. I am required to act differently from the past, and the men will watch closely as I do. I feel my pulse quicken, a sign that danger has approached and is following along like a purple shadow. “When surrounded by people act as if you are alone in a field”. I breathe, seeing trees and sky. Birds fly quickly with grace through tangles of branches. Fear is absent as I feel with slow moving fingers the smoothness of the round chips. Instead of raising, I simply push the minimum amount past the line on the table, nevertheless, it is still an action which is closely observed. A talkative man who is on the button announces confidently that he is raising. I look at his face and sense that he will soon attemt to intimidate me, but he has little chance because fear is nowhere inside my heart. I think about my ability to correctly read the emotions and desires in another, and wonder if he instead could be holding two jacks. The man in the big blind calls, and I am again required to act. I sense the confidence in my heart rising like a morning sun. I consider raising. Should I push all in? I breathe and decide not to act quickly. All of my future cards could be trash, so this may be the only important decision I will be required to make. I decide to call, and wait for the cards which the dealer will bring to the table. They come, and I see an Ace. With alarming immediacy the man in the big blind announces he is all in. I straighten my back so that I can breathe deeply. I don't look at the man's face, or anything else. In this moment of stress I seek my intuition and the clues inside my heart, attempting to get a sense of what just happened, and what the correct response is to be - I am searching for the truth. A simple yes or no question repeats - does he have a better hand than me? Other questions surface - would he push all in with a single pair? Does he have two pair, or a set? Is he on a draw? All I have is one pair, but it is the best possible one pair - not great, not bad. I continue to seek and an image comes into focus that I have a better chance of winning than losing, and although it is against logic to call, I do so anyways. The man on the button says “oh well” and mucks his cards, and the man in the big blind turns over one pair of Aces, with a 5 kicker. I show him my Ace and King and am surprised by his graciousness as he sincerely nods his head and says “nice hand”.

As I move away from the completed tournament, $550 clutched inside my hand, I am already missing the rules of the game. My legs are weak from sitting at the cramped table, and I feel a desire for food. Outside the hall, walking alone in the achingly bright desert sunlight, the sky cloudless and blue, images of faces, cards, emotions, mix with my immersion into solitude. There is no need to talk, the chaos has returned, and I am free.

Lost - A Poem to Bangkok

I have returned to Bangkok, a city which I know nothing about. Knowing nothing, I feel the freshness, wonder, awe, the smallest things having a significance which fades under the scrutiny of a bulky knowledge which grows day by day. The time to wander the streets is now, before the sin of knowing clouds my eyes and jades my heart.

I walk along Rama IV, seeing things which make my memory jump. A restaurant sign, a bus bench where a man had slept with his arm twisted into his bicycle, a mangy dog roaming the same small patch of white bedazzled concrete. My aim is to wander streets which I do not know the names of, to arrive with a body which is not my own, wondering about a planet which may or may not be earth.

The MRT station is nearby, I am looking forward to shedding the afternoon heat in the cool and dark subterranean tunnels. I walk in, a security guard looks passively at my bag before waving me through. I buy a token from the self serve machine, press the black plastic disk on the shining metal gate and walk down a flight of stairs to the platform. The cold yellowish light makes me squint and I feel exposed. I stand beside a shiny tiled wall to remove myself from the gaze of unseen eyes. I can't stop my own self from gazing, the passing moments becoming more significant in ways which are just beyond my understanding, and this makes me want to look at things and people which are raw and exposed in this anonymous tunnel.

The beauty of time is coming on, I crave the sense of it, a world resembling a panorama painting altered with every glance and tug. What do others see, are they wondering about love and beauty and the pulse of their lives? I sense the peculiar plight of existence, everyone living inside their own station of time, and I wonder - does anyone else pull the sublime beauty of it from an underground corner wall?

I can't escape the sexual charge of women, they forever lure me inside their red rooms of desire - greedily eyeing bare white legs, pink cheeks, full hips, shining black hair. My eyes pass to dull metal and stone and the patterns of light tacked onto surfaces. I remember there is a camera in my hand, such a wonderful thing, and the time inside this room can now be etched onto...something. Two people stand in the yellow gloom, there they are, close by, but their time cannot be touched or photographed. No one else is photographing, and I wonder what my own shade of time looks like, trapped and frozen. The train rolls into the station....

The train rolls and I am thinking of painters because life looks as if it is a clearly colored dream at the moment - sharp lines blending with light and I don't know if things are alive or if oiled paint is being squeezed upon my senses. My breath quickens for an instant when I see the thick, curved legs of a woman standing in the train. I use the camera to gather the time into my small hands - I close my eyes for a moment to concentrate upon her image, the erotic beauty washed and absorbed, reassembled - is her warm flesh to be touched and admired, or is it merely a yearning fantasy which is locked outside of time?

I want to stand up and photograph each sagging and deflated face in the car, intently look into their past and future, but I don't. I know they are real, they must be...

I am standing in an anonymous station, gazing at a map secured to a gray blue wall, wondering where to go. Although I desire the uncertainty of lostness, I can't rid myself of the desire to have a plan. I will ride another train, move deeper into this exotic dream city, but where to go?...

I ride an escalator, ahead of me is a figure in black which bends into the light, while a stream of blurred faces pass quickly down the other side. I make a photograph because it seems significant.

I am going to another train, this one above ground. I will alight at the Victory Monument because I like the name...

The train is packed tight, I give my seat to an old woman with missing teeth. I am in the midst of lostness, having untied my anchor to the known and familiar. Abandoned,spongy buildings pass, and I again think of Chicago. Poor folk living on the fringes in weedy streets enclosed by busted window warehouse lots, its fate sucking at the feet of rich flower gardens and perfected lawns of the sparkling tinted window washed skyscraping works of art...

Planless now as I gaze at Victory Monument and photograph it.

The heat and intense light make me squint, invisible sweat beads forming on my neck. Four months ago I stood on this same platform, wondering where to throw my empty water bottle. Bangkok does not have many public trash cans, yet somehow the city remains clean. I carried my full pack, the heat and vastness of strange streets a burden. Later in the day I jumped a train to Chiang Mai, a swift and painless escape, but today is different. I have a small pack, the heat does not seem so terrible, and I aim fearlessly for the center of nothingness. I make more photographs, looking out from the platform to the street below. My mind brings forth images from twenty years ago, where I stand on a train platform in Chicago, camera hanging from neck, gazing into the gray and black markings of a rain slicked Wells Street. I become nostalgic - how did I come so far, travel so long - shouldn't I be exploring some other planet? I remember the picture of a man with bulky gray hat, moist cigar held arrogantly with sharpened fingers, walking like a god among steel beams and mortals. At the top of the picture a woman with white shoes comes on fast but she never makes it, her face forever lost. I connect that picture with the woman I met on a commuter train a few weeks later. She was in her 50's, alone and apart like myself. After talking we decided to see a film together at the Art Institute, an Italian black and white story made years ago. As we watched, our eyes distracted with autumn musings, the purple heaviness of the theater shadows eroded our separateness and for a few moments in the flickering electric twilight we were beautiful and happy. Later, walking on the long bridge under a cold and gray late October sky, Grant Park laid out like a banquet meal below, she asked "have you ever sold a photograph?" Shame crept quickly along my chilled skin as I struggled to explain that the pictures were somehow alive, taking up space like a dull stone, and what did it matter if nobody liked them? Much later the man with arrogant fingers holding the moist cigar would hang on an obscure Swiss gallery wall, bought like a pack of gum or jug of milk. I am taken away from my memories by movement below - buses, scooters, people, all on the move, reminding me that I too should be moving...

I walk down the station steps and find myself a part of something which until now I did not belong to. Light scatters and chases a three legged dog, a sour expression, a bag balanced atop a graying head - it settles into me and I swat it away like an unwanted fly. A row of buses stand idle and I decide to board one the color of rusty lime. The driver gives me a quizzing glance as I approach with hesitant steps, searching for my place among silent strangers. I stand beside a large window and gaze out into the yellow Bangkok heat. A man in a blue uniform moves to the center of the bus and opens a book of photographs. I listen to the words, a musical plea without pause. I glance quickly at a page of his picture book and turn away at once when I see the body and face of a deformed child laying bloody on a bed. A woman sitting nearby gives the man a look of skeptical scorn and I deduce that he will gather no sympathy, but as he approaches each passenger languid hands drop notes and coins into his purse. The bus throttles forward and the man and his book disappear into the white light. A man, his mouth covered in a blue mesh mask, stops beside me and asks for the fare. I hope, perhaps in vain, that the bus is traveling in the direction of the river, whose name I cannot remember. "Going to river", I say, and he does not understand. "River boat ride", and he nods, but my impression is he is as confused as I am as he hands me a red square of paper after I give him a 10 baht coin. The bus rolls and stops, people stepping on and off. The river is in sight - ! - it is wider than I had imagined, brown and muddy, a Buddhist version of the Mighty Mississippi. I exit and wander along in a neighborhood which reminds me of Buffalo, NY, dusty, faded, and tourist-less. I am lost, but I know where the river is, and my feet turn toward it...