Prey For Snow

Snow has dropped a foot up from the ground and hasn’t moved for days. It’s a frozen, remarkable, quiet softening of routine schedules. We now pass each other slower, sharp and aware, briskly riveted with the barely tenable belief that we as humans control nearly nothing on this habitable rock. This sleepy burg isn’t on the East coast or Midwest. It’s people gathered in a little cliquey city who are now suddenly and glaringly bound to each other as this rare winter crushes through the streets indiscriminately, with stunning, humbling violence.



A Garden Spade Ain’t No Snow Shovel, Portlander.

winter storm warning. what a ring that phrase has! for us locals, a veritable crap-ton of snow dropped in the back yard last night that even has the truck wondering why it sits buried under fluffy white. cars lie empty and cockeyed on shoulders of the surrounding roads, hazard lights faintly blinking while their drivers presumably limped off into the drifts. they say an uber driver will arrive to my door within 20 minutes but i’m unsure uber realizes the hills in which i reside. i have a 4 o’clock shift downtown and the 12 inches of beautiful snow that’s stacked between me and the city is so daunting it’s laughable. a giggle occurs.

off to the clean-cut heroes of my automotive traction needs. on foot i shall acquire chains which i will then slap onto an old little truck and we’ll see just how fast off to the races we can be.

998 Cubic Centimeters, 2-5 inches of Rain

These daily swinging stints keep me from madness, soothing the rough edges of an otherwise taxing day.

Twisting around the back roads, this new routine of high risk behavior is as much exhilarating as it is terrifying, zipping up then swooping down, the commute is now a wild run through a highway hillside filled with tractor-trailers, SUVs and and Priuses.

This furious nighttime rally sweeping up and down these West Hills of rain-dropped asphalt upon a sleek and dangerous Japanese beast truly is the only way to live or not live.

Random Acts of Rambling Both Nurturing and Damaging

I’m smooth today. A good razor makes the sun just float down my flesh like warm water along the skin of a baby softened by a dusk in July.

This past summer in my city was relentless in its heat and wickedness, an unbelievable onslaught of asphalt swelter that drove us all towards whatever wetness we could sniff out. Now in the midst of autumn the blue sky has become a true stranger in a land known for soft overcast and since up is now down and right has become wrong, no rule left holds water or carries weight.

There is no better friend than one that tells you you’re truly being foolish.
There is no better enemy than one that continues to behave purely foolish.

Is it yet established that Tool is one of the greatest bands in the world but one of the worst live shows in the universe?

My fanciest camera was stolen today. Though machinery can be replaced, the images on that memory card cannot be and that’s a far larger tragedy than the fact that some sad-sack douche bag lifted one of my most prized possessions. The crummy feeling of helpless violation is a nasty thing to try to shake off.

Why does texting stress me out? Why do I feel compelled to immediately answer and if I don’t the weight of anxiety presses my shoulders into a forlorn slouch that can only be remedied by me thumbing over my phone, appeasing each message with some obligatory vacuous  reply?

Purely rhetorical.

Town Cryer

The advent of autumn has brought upon a wonderful little retrospective that’s been percolating in my dark little brain for a while now…

This summer has been one of the most astoundingly hot seasons I can remember. Drenched in sunshine for months on end, a beauty and brightness I can hardly imagine to be equalled in the years to come. Perfect for river trips and motorbike rides, 2015’s heated summer has been fabulous for wild adventure in strange towns, searching the earth for a river or a lake or merely lying around the house with the windows swung wide open like French doors or a French whore.

Strangely though, more tears have been shed down these cheeks this year than they ever have in the last 20 combined.

More tears of venom and salt have bled down these cheeks this summer than I care to remember, like a child’s tantrum or a frantic tween, I’ve wept on sidewalks, in cafes, on park benches, in locker rooms, hallways and bathrooms in almost any type of building you can think of. Drained my world and soul into strange sinks, onto shoulders and into dirty bandanas, drenched this little city with enough sorrow measured for a year.

I hold onto the fact that friends come and go. Gripping the idea with strong, stiff, sore fingers like a vise, hanging on with blind passion and naive rage, a relentless little monkey unwitting but unwilling to surrender the belief that the beauty in everyone deserves to be realized. Eventually.

People arrive onto scenes sometimes like wildfire or sometimes quietly out of the woodwork. Acquaintances regardless of how amorous or not, take on all shapes and roles, ever-changing sometimes to benefit, sometimes to destroy, sometimes to feed and enlighten and sometimes to teach and…DESTROY.

Them’s just people. That’s what we people do.

Relationships can quickly disintegrate into the past like lost pets, weird jobs and memorable apartments.

This past summer I lost friends to lovers, nearly lost friends to death, and lost my lover before I even knew she left. Found reasons why I’m like no other and discovered lovers in the midst of madness, on the edge of a gasp or deep in breath.

New leaves turn like corners, new roads somehow found, left pain of the past in the mirror just to get off the ground. Unrepentant, unrelenting venting is my sound, love and rage and lost in laughter, elements forever bound.

Bring the fall!

All us Northwesterners know that after such a scathing summer it’s high time for some hard rain.

Rain Damage

Wearing the wrong pants for a rainstorm that’s unleashing a horrifying display of freeway ineptitude.

It’s us against the soaking masses of traffic. Fun.

Delirious from anticipating collision while being hidden by dark rain, tucked deep behind speeding shadows and blind spots, the only constant element is the howl of the engine and the blankets of water.

like a fish I sift through puddles and mist
sleek, I persist against the fear in my wrist
hydroplaning lanes in the darkness and rain,
adrift in adrenaline, drowning in bliss.