Driftword

Notes kept while walking the streets.

I remember (awayback in '97) when a certain friend of mine took me to lunch at the Sorrento Hotel. (I had their hamburger, with cheddar cheese.)

We dined in the front area of the hotel; the patio, I believe it's called, right next to the fountain. There were lovely tables and chairs available, of the café variety; and the reddish-brown facade of the building struck me with its grandiosity, and its ornately decorated, carved stonework embellishments at the top of the building and around the windows greeted my wondering eyes.

The people there were very fashionable, wearing their Armani and/or Gucci sunglasses. I think that I may have ordered a beer or two, probably a Beck's, or perhaps a Heineken, or maybe it was a St. Pauli's or an Amstel's.

It was a very bright, sunny day—I do remember that much. It was probably sometime in August. I imagined what it would be like to stay in such a hotel, with its gleaming gold luggage-carriers, capably manned by the bell-staff with their cute little red-and-black outfits, and I wondered what the penthouse suite might look like. And all of this while waiting for my cheeseburger . . . and while being stared at by the people wearing the Armani and/or Gucci sunglasses.

When we had first arrived, there was not a soul in sight. But then gradually, as if by some sort of mystical arrangement, the place started filling up with people. They were grabbing chairs and moving tables and all the while staring at me with their black Gucci and/or Armani sunglasses. I hate those little, black, round or semi-octagonal Armani and/or Gucci sunglasses. Always looking, always staring. I felt like I was being watched by the FBI—that's how I felt. (They do wear those kind of sunglasses, you know, the FBI, the CIA (you name 'em, they wear 'em), the cops, the KGB, etc. etc.)

Anyway, we had driven over in my friend's car, which was a Cadillac or something like that, because I remember that it had a really nice interior, electric windows, leather upholstery, etc. etc.

I could have met him on the street, or in a bar, one of the many bars that are on Capitol Hill. I thought for a minute that it might have been my friend Mike, but he drives a cheaper car, a Buick or something, so I know it wasn't him.

So that's my story—of the day that I had lunch at the Sorrento Hotel, and I ordered a cheeseburger.

Agony; Always, Agony

They try to do everything in their feeble power

to try to distract you

they try to keep you from doing that thing that you need

to do

The art thing

the creative thing

they have this idea

that you must TOIL

that you must SLAVE

that you must CONSUME

that you must do what THEY

tell you to do

they are corrupt

They promote fear

They judge constantly.

A Letter to My Brother, Nick

Dear Nick,

For your information, I am NOT a hobo.

I am a BOHEMIAN.

I am an (Amateur) Intellectual Hobbyist.

I am an artist, and

I am a thinker.

I am a poet, and I am

A WRITER.

Please do not be alarmed by this.

I am also a musician. I can play several different

instruments (as you already know).

I am not a tramp, and I am not a bum.

I have never ridden on a freight train, although

I have seen, and watched them, and wondered (many times)

what it would be like to ride on one.

I Remember Portland

I remember Portland: I remember the rain;

I remember the trees, and the mountains;

I remember the people;

I remember the buildings;

I remember the cold-wind-blowing.

I remember the River Columbia:

A Big Large Scary-River.

I remember the bridges, I remember the buses;

I remember the bus drivers;

I remember the hospitals;

I remember the streets;

I remember the parks;

I remember the pace

(It was a slow pace).

I remember the bars;

I remember the coffee-shops;

I remember the bookstores

(I remember Powell's).

I remember the Brewery;

I remember Burnside;

I remember Portland.

 
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