Portland, ah, Portland: A Musical by Nelly

I had the quintessential Portland experience yesterday….

Heard the music first: “Hot in Here” by Nelly. Who is blasting that old chestnut, then? A man, lying on his side on the corner of Everett and 6th, legs all atwitch. Ain’t drugs glorious?! You go the other direction up Everett, there’s a fella in a wheelchair nodded out. His trousers are often below his arse cheeks so you can see his befouled arse crack. When he stirs perhaps you’ll catch him playing a spirited round of “Find the Vein.” In front of our building there were two tents but now there are three. Sort of a KOA as imagined by Hieronymus Bosch…

But I have an amazing landlord. Seriously. I’ve had some crap landlords as I’m sure you have, this one is incredible. Brought me soup when I was sick. Bought all the tenants pizza a couple of nights ago—

I know what I have here. Great landlord, great apartment…in the middle of some sort of Hieronymus Bosch hellscape wth Nelly blaring in the background.

When I am not at work, I comfort sobbing book projects that are awail with tears at my faithlessness.

No, I have not been true to you, but I love you—you know this, right? Yes, there are others but you are all special to me? Can I say you are the most special? Of course, of course, my love.

As Nelly plays in my head, pointing out how warm it has gotten in this room and that we should take off all our clothes.

I finished the (too short) book about me being a truant eighth grader…

The writing group I was in eight years ago is reuniting in two weeks and I’m trying to figure out what story to share. The prompt of this reunion is we are supposed to submit something…I guess to a short story magazine but I am so so jaded about publishers so I dunno but…

Back to my faithlessness.

So, I am going through some short stories for another collection I haven’t a clue how to market.

I’m working on the sixth book of song lyrics or poetry.

I’ve started working on the story of when I was in my mid twenties and gained eighty pounds.

The most recent project is about this seeming village in fifteenth century Tuscany. Seeming? Yeah, there’s a big reveal so….seeming.

And I have a gig playing music on the 16th which leads back into the “Oh, and I’m planning to record an album.”

In other words, I’m about two days from blowing a fuse and twitching on the corner of Everett and 6th as that rancid chestnut by Nelly blares.

It’s getting hot in here, and you’re not focused on your prose!

Do you want me to be timely? Talk about the plastic clown show in the White House? Do you really wanna examine that shite any closer? Have another friend wringing their hands and wailing their laments? Shouting at the flaccid Democrats to get some backbone and point out all this unconstitutional shit?

I thought not.

The problem with the United States, as a culture, is we are not a patient people. We want simple solutions to complex issues and that ain’t gonna fucking happen. It takes so much hustle, so much surrendering time you need to recharge to your job etc. that there is not steam left in the boiler to really anaylize things before making a decision or to read what, ahm, what Illiterate Mussolini is extolling and take the time to say, “Ah, you know, I don’t think a tariff is a good idea.”

Yeah…tariff…in a global fucking economy where every bit and bob is made in some other fucking country…tariff is really gonna work well.

Ah, fuck…I got sucked in! Sucked in, I say!

It’s getting hot in here, and a recession’s close!

I’ve now been back in Portland for a year now. It was spring then: I got this apartment I loved, found the Brow (my bar, the Lowbrow). People told me Portland was getting better and—despite the smattering of hobos—it seemed alright. It’s like the past two months it has been rolling down a steep slope: More tents, more panhandlers, more people clearly nodded off.

But, I love my apartment and I have an amazing landlord.

But, this shit—often literally—is getting to me.

I grow nostalgic for the time in the van, just traveling and being out in nature. Nostalgia is stupid, it’s dangerous, so I remind myself of the downsides of vanlife.

Besides, I got a good gig, paid decently, free meal every day and so on. That gig and my apartment keep me in Portland, that and the people I am close to here…all three of them.

My ideal for the future is a trailer park. No shit, I loved living in a trailer park when I was a camphost. A 250 square foot dwelling with a little yard to watch the birds and the sunset, some neighbors—that’s the life, you know? 

More nostalgia: I was burned out being a camphost, just…tired of it. But, the actual place, that was amazing. Who knows what the future holds.

It’s getting hot in here, who knows what the future holds?

So…I have this reunion thing on the 12th. I really like these people, we have a good time when we meet up. Submit a story to a magazine? I have a couple of ideas. What I would really like to do is screen stuff. I write stories that would make really good movies. I see the stuff streaming on (streaming provider) and I think, “Fuck, that is in line with the stuff I do.” I’ve started watching Severence and that is like something I’d shat out. It’s a tough wall to broach, though, very tough. Most writers want a bite of that chestnut, you know? 

I’ve been reading a bio on Van Morrison, craving McDonalds. The rain falls, the sun hints of mercies behind the clouds. Vagrents shat themselves or twitch next to trash bins to twenty year old hits. When the skies and passes are clear on my days off I will start doing mini trips out into the wilds. I’ve been stockpiling places in Washington (state) to hit up. Washington, East Oregon—that’s about as far as I can go in two days. 

Until next time—

It’s getting hot in here, time for this line of thought to close...