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
