Tuesday, August 01, 2006
A Journey of Silence in a World of Tall Trees and Houses
I just walked by the house I used to live in when I was four years old. Memories of rotten goose eggs at Easter. First witnessed acts of violence at the house next door that now holds a dream catcher before its South facing window, a tyrannosaur hangs from the ceiling before the West facing window and gazes in hunger at my soul. I witnessed animal abuse. I witnessed terror from beneath the dining room table while being babysat. The vast expanse of yard seems tiny now. The front yard of the house, where I witnessed my first sexual behavior as the girl next door, Bertha, played baby and laid in a box with her underwear down and I looked in at her confused until her enraged mom almost ripped her tiny arm out of her socket and beat her bare ass screaming at her as she screamed and cried in terror and tried to protect her bare ass from her mother's relentless attack. I ran home in terror, in hopes of protection, and said nothing, to no one, ever.
I find a crow feather, and it tells me where it wants to go, into a yard a few blocks further, stem in the soil, standing straight up.
I remember the front steps of my old house, where during a snowy winter, the whole family had a snowball fight. I got my mother a good one, my tiny four year old self, only to get a sneak attack from whitey as she had rolled a snowball the size of me and slammed it upon my back as I bent over to make another. It took my wind and made me cry and she never smiled or comforted me in my pain. She never apologized because she wasn't sorry for hurting me. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted her revenge, and took it with an unsatisfied desire. She was angry. She was not to be trusted. I was only four.
Gladiolas line the sidewalk, now. A monkey puzzle tree. A peace flag cut in half dangles in front of the local hippy house. Winds rustle the leaves of maples. An old white woman eyeballs me suspiciously as I walk down the street. Delaware Street in Portland is a lot different some 38 years later. Then again, maybe it is not as different as I think. Maybe it is as not as familiar as I remember.
Simon G. Stanich Park (Square)
created by city council resolution 9-3-75
dedicated 8-1-76
30 years ago today.
I must be on the right track, there on the corner of N Prescott and N Concord.
I decided to weave my way through North Portland...through the freshly blooming glory bauer and old neighborhood trees. Around flower gardens and wavy sidewalks where roots want freedom and alas...to the Failing Street Ped Bridge
where I stand above I-5 South Bound leaning against the iron rail as relentless traffic pours like the most rapid river just beneath my feet. It is so noisy and unpleasant as wave after wave after wave... I see Big Pink as I watch the people carrying vehicles head to somwhere or nowhere in particular...
and North Bound is as equally unpleasant as humans rush beneath my feet in a noisy and unpleasant chaotic clamour. I go unnoticed by the traffic, not paid attention to by my fellow pedestrians. And I write these words just above the chaos of my world...our world. And they head North. I get looked at by a couple of my fellow pedestrians whom I assume wonder what pictures I am painting with my words. And the world rushes on into nowhere. Siren screams in its familiar tone of fear.
Time to move on and look for work...
A journey of silence in a world of tall trees and houses.
I sit at the busy Mississippi Street in front of the Rebuilding Center and remember Minneapolis and the beauty of the man mangled Mississippi River and the ruins of the old mill. Rhonda and I had just eaten at Totino's where the name of the frozen pizza in a box comes from. The walk by the Mississippi River, the evening beauty, the wonderful humans, the place of her offering, the moon, the stars in the night sky, the giant tree in the park on the other side of the river, the lockes, the yellow orange street lights, the puppies, the beauty of her face, her smile, her Love, her warrior womanness, holding her hand, kissing her...
I sit across from the Mississipi Pizza Pub, where I saw the late Syd Brown play music accompanied by Steve Ahmdahl on the timbales. I sat with Jim Craven and we watched one of the most beautiful belly dancers that Syd could not watch because his heart would skip a beat and his fingers would soon follow.
"Move along. Nothing to see here."
I sit on a bus bench just past Dawson Park where I went pee. The first door I grabbed a woman had not locked and I interrupted her natural process. My apologies sister. Dawson Park, by the NARA clinic and Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. The hospital where my friend Maire Cullen found herself without working kidneys and she listened to me as I dreamed my hero back, but only with her cooperation. Maire does not do something she doesn't want to. I just got her attention before she took her journey to the spirit world and left her robe behind. I'm greedy. I don't want me hero to go home.
Dawson Park, where people picnic on tables between busy streets and men play dominoes. All await anxiously the tossing of the next piece.
I sit in front of the Memorial Coliseum. I remember the concerts I've been to, my ass getting grabbed when I felt like the ugliest of humans, AC/DC when Bon Scott was still alive, Rush, Van Halen, Eric Clapton, Crosby Stills and Nash, Bonnie Raitt, sitting and waiting for the doors to open and the mad rush. Harlem Globetrotters, trailblazers, fun and disappointment...and in the skies above my head, just a minute ago as I started to write this paragraph, two loud jets fly to remind us that death will be reigned upon many to protect our privilege by making others suffer.
I walk through the center of Peace Park, right down the middle of the grass and flower peace sign. Right through the middle on the grassy path through peace surrounded by tiny flowers. It's that easy. I think of those suffering in the Middle East, right here on the streets of Portland, the streets I wander.
I stand where the Steele Bridge opens on the pedestrian walkway and make my offerings. I wanted to write words here, but the bridge has to be opened for anxiously awaiting boat traffic. Although I thought I knew what I wanted to write here, I can no longer form the words to the page and something else has come to me, an old story:
Good Horse told me he tried to run from spirit, hiding in the remotest areas of B.C. But spirit always found him. Running does not get us there and it is just as easy to hide in the city as it is in the remotest areas of B.C. I can't escape. Don't want to escape. Beauty surrounds me. Besides...no matter where I go, I'm always there. And my river...she is beautiful, and my world keeps me here for now. Like Margaret Cho, I have decided to stay and fight.
Just across the Willamette River is Downtown Portland. What should I do with it?
Here at the BOO, the Revolution goes on and on and on...and don't forget to dance. That is why we have music programs. And don't forget to laugh, either. Tell a good joke, make fun of yourself or others as opportunity arises. And I'll see you all on this side of the Revolution. Where else are we going to go? The remotest areas of B.C.? You can't hide! And yes...We are coming for your children!
This is dedicated to my Lover Love, Rhonda Baseler!
I find a crow feather, and it tells me where it wants to go, into a yard a few blocks further, stem in the soil, standing straight up.
I remember the front steps of my old house, where during a snowy winter, the whole family had a snowball fight. I got my mother a good one, my tiny four year old self, only to get a sneak attack from whitey as she had rolled a snowball the size of me and slammed it upon my back as I bent over to make another. It took my wind and made me cry and she never smiled or comforted me in my pain. She never apologized because she wasn't sorry for hurting me. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted her revenge, and took it with an unsatisfied desire. She was angry. She was not to be trusted. I was only four.
Gladiolas line the sidewalk, now. A monkey puzzle tree. A peace flag cut in half dangles in front of the local hippy house. Winds rustle the leaves of maples. An old white woman eyeballs me suspiciously as I walk down the street. Delaware Street in Portland is a lot different some 38 years later. Then again, maybe it is not as different as I think. Maybe it is as not as familiar as I remember.
Simon G. Stanich Park (Square)
created by city council resolution 9-3-75
dedicated 8-1-76
30 years ago today.
I must be on the right track, there on the corner of N Prescott and N Concord.
I decided to weave my way through North Portland...through the freshly blooming glory bauer and old neighborhood trees. Around flower gardens and wavy sidewalks where roots want freedom and alas...to the Failing Street Ped Bridge
where I stand above I-5 South Bound leaning against the iron rail as relentless traffic pours like the most rapid river just beneath my feet. It is so noisy and unpleasant as wave after wave after wave... I see Big Pink as I watch the people carrying vehicles head to somwhere or nowhere in particular...
and North Bound is as equally unpleasant as humans rush beneath my feet in a noisy and unpleasant chaotic clamour. I go unnoticed by the traffic, not paid attention to by my fellow pedestrians. And I write these words just above the chaos of my world...our world. And they head North. I get looked at by a couple of my fellow pedestrians whom I assume wonder what pictures I am painting with my words. And the world rushes on into nowhere. Siren screams in its familiar tone of fear.
Time to move on and look for work...
A journey of silence in a world of tall trees and houses.
I sit at the busy Mississippi Street in front of the Rebuilding Center and remember Minneapolis and the beauty of the man mangled Mississippi River and the ruins of the old mill. Rhonda and I had just eaten at Totino's where the name of the frozen pizza in a box comes from. The walk by the Mississippi River, the evening beauty, the wonderful humans, the place of her offering, the moon, the stars in the night sky, the giant tree in the park on the other side of the river, the lockes, the yellow orange street lights, the puppies, the beauty of her face, her smile, her Love, her warrior womanness, holding her hand, kissing her...
I sit across from the Mississipi Pizza Pub, where I saw the late Syd Brown play music accompanied by Steve Ahmdahl on the timbales. I sat with Jim Craven and we watched one of the most beautiful belly dancers that Syd could not watch because his heart would skip a beat and his fingers would soon follow.
"Move along. Nothing to see here."
I sit on a bus bench just past Dawson Park where I went pee. The first door I grabbed a woman had not locked and I interrupted her natural process. My apologies sister. Dawson Park, by the NARA clinic and Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. The hospital where my friend Maire Cullen found herself without working kidneys and she listened to me as I dreamed my hero back, but only with her cooperation. Maire does not do something she doesn't want to. I just got her attention before she took her journey to the spirit world and left her robe behind. I'm greedy. I don't want me hero to go home.
Dawson Park, where people picnic on tables between busy streets and men play dominoes. All await anxiously the tossing of the next piece.
I sit in front of the Memorial Coliseum. I remember the concerts I've been to, my ass getting grabbed when I felt like the ugliest of humans, AC/DC when Bon Scott was still alive, Rush, Van Halen, Eric Clapton, Crosby Stills and Nash, Bonnie Raitt, sitting and waiting for the doors to open and the mad rush. Harlem Globetrotters, trailblazers, fun and disappointment...and in the skies above my head, just a minute ago as I started to write this paragraph, two loud jets fly to remind us that death will be reigned upon many to protect our privilege by making others suffer.
I walk through the center of Peace Park, right down the middle of the grass and flower peace sign. Right through the middle on the grassy path through peace surrounded by tiny flowers. It's that easy. I think of those suffering in the Middle East, right here on the streets of Portland, the streets I wander.
I stand where the Steele Bridge opens on the pedestrian walkway and make my offerings. I wanted to write words here, but the bridge has to be opened for anxiously awaiting boat traffic. Although I thought I knew what I wanted to write here, I can no longer form the words to the page and something else has come to me, an old story:
Good Horse told me he tried to run from spirit, hiding in the remotest areas of B.C. But spirit always found him. Running does not get us there and it is just as easy to hide in the city as it is in the remotest areas of B.C. I can't escape. Don't want to escape. Beauty surrounds me. Besides...no matter where I go, I'm always there. And my river...she is beautiful, and my world keeps me here for now. Like Margaret Cho, I have decided to stay and fight.
Just across the Willamette River is Downtown Portland. What should I do with it?
Here at the BOO, the Revolution goes on and on and on...and don't forget to dance. That is why we have music programs. And don't forget to laugh, either. Tell a good joke, make fun of yourself or others as opportunity arises. And I'll see you all on this side of the Revolution. Where else are we going to go? The remotest areas of B.C.? You can't hide! And yes...We are coming for your children!
This is dedicated to my Lover Love, Rhonda Baseler!
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