There is a sign on a bridge, hand painted onto already cut plywood, that advises you to turn your clocks 5 minutes ahead, after all, you are entering the center of the Universe. This is the introduction to Fremont, Washington, an hours walk from the Seattle Downtown. Our experience on these streets would give credence to the sign. If in our present states we are always at the center, and we are engaging with others viscerally and connecting energetically, Fremont played the part of a lovely host yesterday evening.
A potty-trained well-mannered beautiful eighteen year old parrot named Pepe, reunited cousins of 15 years whose unknown experiences to each other prove connections, spiritual brothers of 3 years brought together through fate, facebook, good fortune and spiritual brothers of 20 years understanding life at levels far beyond the surface and applying their wisdom positively to the community. Interconnectedly sharing familial bonds and previous lives to Texas, Hawai'i, New York, North Carolina. We're all currently living in Washington, Salt Lake City, Vancouver, and Maui. We sat outside, drank thai teas, and talked story. How did we all get there?
Rachel and I, the cousins of this tale, drove down to Portland on Thursday with a good old fashioned map. Stopping at the farmer's market in Olympia, we admired the craft vendors, the produce, the music, the turnout. Each town with a market of this nature gains a better sense of community, and this one thoroughly impressed us. Small businesses, old family businesses, co-ops, the personal feel rather than the consumeristic, cooperate vibes that flood America, trademarked this small city. Heading south down I-5 we then stopped at Mt St. Helens and went for a walk in the 30 year old woods. Ready for this? 18 million trees were hand planted after the eruption in 1980 which devastated the landscape with 150 mph landslides and enough lava spewed to pave a 7 lane highway, three feet deep, from Portland to New York. Now nature blooms in the volcanic fertile soil, the wildlife and wildflowers have returned, and the trails are graced by footsteps of the awe-inspired.
Onto Portland, the city of books, beer, art, green living. The contagious feel that nurtures artistic stimulation and creation, diversity and sustainability. It's down to earth with an edge, and all small businesses are crossing over with the artists. Beers served in bookstores, innovative antique shops, all places conscious of the aesthetics, challenging themselves for the sake of anti-complacency, not for the competition, but because the journey never truly ends. And don't forget the foodtrucks. It's hard to miss'em when there are 600 throughout the city. From Kathmandu Cuisine to Big Ass Sandwiches.
Jazz. The legend of the sax. Lucky enough to watch the soul of the greats throughout the 20th century being channeled into the brass that became part of Devon Philips' Being and radiated out rhythms and meters both technical and ethereal. Backed by a brilliant stand up bass, pianist, and drummer. They all had their time in the sun, but you could tell they really shone in the cool moonlight. There was a meteor shower that night. Even the stars were impressed.
We head up from Portland back to Sea-Tac Airport to pick up Eric after grabbing a Corona-Smith Manual Typewriter from the 60s in a Portland Antique Shop and decided to go to Fremont. We follow what looked like Seth, our old mentor, driving a mini-cooper and end up on the right road en route to the bridge. We park and walk past the "White Rabbit" bar for the first of five times that night, eat at "Homegrown," have conversations outside with Thai Teas, walk down to the bridge with new friends, run into old friends from 4 years ago in Mukilteo and grow possibilities for the future road trip. There was a meteor shower that night too. Fell asleep in Redmond after a night drive over bridges listening to icelandic bands. The nights are there to make of it what you can. The wheel beckons eager hands.
Sustainability of the west. There are trash cans, some. Next to them are compost bins for food scraps, paper plates, napkins, etc. Though some places do no have a trash bin, all they serve up is either compostable or recyclable. The farmer's market containing local art and produce are busy. People care. Working our way to the humans personifying the animals, which segues into:
Become
as i lie down in the thick grass along the volcanic riverbed
water slipping and bubbling over uneven smooth rocks
the academy will gather at the grove and gaze down
at my cushioned brittle bones, a decaying body
in high spirits beckoning curious expressions
i recall the fond memory and share
the day i befriended the bird
unique was her figure, slender, majestic
focused like a hawk, long like a frigate,
still as an owl, perched exactly as an Osprey
proudly surveying the mississippi from penultimate branches
appearing only as someone who felt at home would appear
next to her i awaited imaginary queues, and of course,
warningless we leapt into cloudy space
circling the thick prickly trunk, spiraling downward
past bug bitten leaves and squirrel bitten nuts
rhythmically flapping noiseless wings, unsure unworried
of the mystery behind the cause of the wind
and the cause of that
all the way down the turtles back
gliding maneuvering through brush
we weren't searching
we were midnight dancing under northern stars
through the clearing we soared
an eagle set on the horizon
the horizontal bridge in our divided life
of the existing visceral present
and the unforeseeable knowable omnitime
great spirit, collector and protector
of all beginningless and endless flights
we long to realize you, help us close our eyes
and become the bird
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