Watermelon Seeds

Tomorrow I am moving to the NW side of Portland, staying with a friend of KC's for a few days. On the 1st KC will be passing through and she will give me a ride back to Eugene - the adventure rolls on....

#6 SW

The past 4 days I have hiked/run the #6 SW. I pick it up a few blocks from the house and it leads me through various neighborhoods before ending downtown. The portion I hike is 8-10 miles in length, lots of hills and beauty, it is dream-like in its weirdness -

Out Stealing Horses

I am undergoing a transformation, spirit/body/mind fusing into a new level of being. Forcing is not the way, but when the time is right, the will acts, and the large knot of past experience which keeps us tied in place, begins to unravel. The end of my marriage, quitting my job, leaving the country, all of these things put an end to a way of life which I loved, but which had come to its conclusion - to continue on the path, when the path is no more, leads to an inauthentic life, and perhaps insanity. Living moment to moment, I adapt with grace and ease, the only chaos being whatever chaos I allow to live inside the mind.

In Asia I was a seeker of freedom and space, talking little, the solitary wanderer with camera and notebook. Now in Oregon, USA, people are within range again, speaking to me daily, learning of my path and what led to it. They share their experience, freely giving kindness and compassion, and lead me to places I could not have reached alone.

I am testing the limits of my new self, trying to hold fast to the freedom I gained, while submitting myself to the new space and time of others. Can I maintain a sense of wholeness, happiness, and love while sharing the tiny space of my life with others? I am willing to risk, confident that it is possible to maintain order within the complexities of new relationships. If things begin to cloud, freedom slowly eroding, I will back up, withdraw into the core of my being, and smile.

* * * * * * *

I am renting a room in Portland, in a yellow house with a white door and a woman named Morgan. Morgan paints, maintains a beautiful garden, and has a good library. I borrow books from it, one being "Out Stealing Horses" by Per Petterson. I read in the evenings, after meditating in the backyard meditation hall, laying in bed with the table lamp set on low. Eventually I become drowsy and can no longer make meaning of a sentence, and I read it over and over until I am no longer conscious. Then I dream.

* * * * * * *

I run in the mornings. The air is cool and I don't care for it, so I run fast to keep some internal heat going. Today I ran to Tryon Creek, on trails with names of "Cedar" "High Bridge", "North Creek", and "Lewis and Clark". I look up and strain my neck to gaze upon the old and solid Douglas Firs. The hills are many, and I enjoy this, it makes up for the cool air. Up and slow, down and fast, over and over. When I am done I feel strong and walk to the Safeway on Barbur and buy chocolate milk, noodles, and vegetables for the evening meal.

* * * * * * *

I dream. Mixtures of past and present create an odd sense of future. Sometimes I am with women, who undress and show me their bodies. When I wake in the morning I can remember the shadows and shapes, and think about sex and how it is always there, lurking, like death - I can try to forget, but it never leaves the room, and eventually I acknowledge it for what it is. I love women and I love life, and how much would I love either if it wasn't for sex and death?

Poem of Portland - Sunflower Blues

I

Waiting for the #12 bus -

impatience or

to watch two pretty women

and a bearded man

wading through

the anonymity of time.

II

Another beautiful face

with an infinite past

A soul which I recognize

from where?

I gaze at pictures on the wall

and smiling sunflowers in a vase

shimmering to the windowed

world of light

directs my gaze down

to the polished floor

where I watch a tangle of shadows

etching dark flowers

and an answer.

III

She sings a song,

her voice

waving like water

across the kitchen table

opening her heart

which bled iridescent color

some day distant

but which now

in the slant light of afternoon

bathes the room

in golden smile -

radiance

warm to the touch

heals the day.

Meditation Sketch

The Book of Fate

I.

Once again I am settled into wind, sunlight

summer carrying me across

something so big

that my mind closes

and all of the stars

are squinting in the

half closed eyes

of the Stone Buddha.

II.

I can no longer distinguish

between the light outside

and that which illuminates my

imaginary eye -

Am I me

where is here

why can't I stop?

The wind pushes the bell

and my smile returns...

III

Giving up all

brings a tear

but in letting go

I become something new

a strange creature

with new streets and alleys

to explore.

Crying,

life lingers outside

the room

and passes silently away.

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