Live, Love, Laugh, Crash

A month laid up and a year gone off.

Here’s the lay of the land. The splayed wide openness of what I understand:

Horrendous separation and even more gruesome motorcycle crash. At least they were both quick in their bite despite being long with their resolution. All in a year’s work. In a year’s fight, a year’s struggle flush with pain and adventure.

Two dozen feet from point of impact to where my body came to a stop. On a sidewalk. Across the street. Two bones broken poking up through the skin like a splintered tree. Pup tent on a pant leg, picked it up and it was like a sack of broken parts, my boot twisted around like hands on a clock. Never lost consciousness, never forgot who I was or what just happened. Never not knew that someone just broke the law right before I broke my leg.

It takes a certain mettle to deter the depression that wallows in these hollows, this haunt of a beautiful apartment becomes a narrow prison if not checked. Injury that limits mobility and independence will always take the form of an angry, rabid animal that eventually wants to break through walls with its head and roar furiously to freedom. Sequestered from voices, vices, severed from the flesh of society, best leash that beast, boy.

This couch, no matter how nice the leather, there’s a blanket over it. Protecting what, I’m unsure of. Commanding this sofa into oblivion, resting, hurting, healing, watching great television.

Anyone who tells you that life is short are wrong. Life is long and full of beauty and madness. Unless you’re a child. That died. That joke was from Louie CK, who, hands down, has the most poignant and tragically beautiful television show in all of pop culture.

The dog knows. She goes slow, watching my legs, is calm and obedient in the face of my broken, wary gait. Waits as I finally sit down until she ambles up, begging for pets and play.

There isn’t any amount of gratitude that is enough for me to have for everyone who has and still is contributing to this certain convalesence.



Why I Live Here

My god. This neighborhood. This sunshine. It’s heavenly in flesh whether hat, hair or dress, this fragile mind trembles tiny earthquakes with every step in NW Portland.

It’s as if all the art in the world decided to go for a walk today.

My tan lines give away my interests. My smirk hides something entirely different nowadays.

Despite my body starving for something, this fragile mind is stitched and wrapped in bandages, unable to understand why this incredible summer has become an indomitable prison.

Lovely Rita

Eating sushi behind a big street side picture window and after what must have been my ninth little plate off the cheapo train, I watch a meter maid walk across the window. She’s making her way down the street from where I’ve parked. Where I’ve parked without paying. Where I parked without caring. It was Sunday, for god’s sake. I continued to have a couple more plates because I was sure that she just wrote me a ticket a half block up just out of eye-shot. It made my unagi taste like “ugh-nagi”.

A week later the impossible happened. Twice. In one day. My luck is irrepressible, I almost don’t want to express my amazement in fear of somehow jinxing this sweet roll I call my sweet, blessed life.

Most of the times I park like my motorcycle like a normal, courteous human being, sometimes slick like a ninja in between cars already in spots but leaving plenty of space. However, there are times when I blatantly flout the law and put my motorbike anywhere I can find space, short of popping it up on a sidewalk (I hate those guys!) Usually on the pretext of being just a few minutes while running a quick errand or picking up a sandwich, I’ll slip into a spot and not pay the meter.

I was about to be cited by the fine City of Portland’s Parking Enforcement but I luckily arrived at the right time and by utilizing my uncanny ability to plead my case, was able to avoid paying some exorbitant fine. Did I mention that this happened twice in one day? Two times. Each meter reader seemed annoyed that I managed to interrupt their nabbing me and both reprimanded me like a parochial overseer, and each time I took my licks and promised to feed the meter every time I parked.

Luck has everything to do with timing and emotional reaction. Or maybe that’s just making your own luck. Whatever the case, my luck is like soft serve, every once in a while it’s totally awesome only because I don’t get it every day.

Couch (cūch) Park Dog

On our way to the park, I was thinking that every time we come here late at night, no other person is ever here, let alone another fool and his dog. Once I had this thought and took five steps, oh doggy o’mine winds up accidentally scaring the only other loose dog who also happened to be at the park. I had let Roo off the leash and thrown her toy frisbee to her. She leapt and caught it only to tear across the field to say hi to other dog. Unfortunately, the other dog’s owner became quite frightened (because dogs with neon yellow frisbees dangling from their mouths are an obvious threat) and abruptly leashed up his big white dog. They quickly left in the opposite direction. His dog was quite a bit larger than Roo but maybe his dog hips were too old to deal with young mutts or he just had his nuts whacked and wasn’t supposed to play to that day. So they made tracks. Regardless, I was embarrassed for my dog screwing up their peaceful night. I soon got over it because his dog was already loose and mine just wanted to join. Peaceful shmeaseful. This is the city, soft belly, where things sometime reach an edge and you have to be ready for anything.

We and by “we” I mean “me”, had decided to then play a condensed version of frisbee by keeping the dog on an extendable leash. I could throw the frisbee tall into the air but not very far away as to be able to have her run and catch it while still attached to the leash.

Until I threw it too far and and foolishly thought that I could hang on while she bolted after that thing, I was soon tumbling like a yard sale down a mountainside in the middle of MLC field, attached to a single-minded gun dog chasing neon “prey”. The rain doesn’t always soften the ground but my bones sure seemed to turn to splinters as I thudded. Presently, I can barely take a full breath without my left neck aching. Dang dog.

Drive Me Craazy

Was on a tear the other day. Traffic hit a head and every slow sumbitch and brain-damaged tourist impeded my every move. Drivers not looking, not using signals, it was as if the whole day was a public service announcement on how to drive like a self-involved jackass. I was crushing an automobile through city traffic while stressed, stupendously angry, and primed for a random screaming match while clutching the steering wheel.

After hopping on the motorbike, however, I was calm like a beautiful back rub despite all the same dangerous, oblivious dimwit drivers who were still on the road.

I’m convinced that 2-wheeled vehicles are the only ways to travel and my crazy blood pressure is all the proof I need.

Architecture of Summer

It’s hot. People you know are stripping down and running through fountains in the middle of the city in the middle of the night. Fountains you didn’t even know existed though you had passed by this very spot on Front Avenue many times and just missed it. With a bit of convincing you realize that this decision couldn’t have been a better one and despite later riding home on a motorcycle in soggy jeans, you’d do it again a hundred times over.