Fort Allen Park, Portland

Pine needles carpeting a ceiling made of three pine trees, their old homes that dropped them – set them free. Displaced drifters laying and looking longingly upward at their home. The salt in the wind is displaced - it used to be in the water. I breathe in the smell of sun, pine, dirt and sea. The rocks on the beach are displaced – they used to be part of a formation deep within the sea or high up on a mountain. A displaced seagull walks upon these rocks, not because he’s away from home, but because he’s home. And you can feel that way there too.

The smell of shit surprises me, makes me wonder if there is a port-a-potty nearby or if a displaced person without a home has used the park as their uninviting toilet. The seaweed sunbathing at the edge of the waves found a new home here at low tide, and is ready to be swept away, displaced but not forgotten, when the tide comes back to carry it away. This is where I feel most calm. Alone in a park, alone with the wind and the water and my wandering, haphazard thoughts. Each person in the park - a woman on a mat doing yoga with the bobbing boats as audience, a man jogging, an old couple making out, (yes, making out), and a young boy walking his enormous mastiff – each of them with thoughts whirling around their heads, each of them happy it’s Friday.

I count 54 boats tied to buoys, 54 boats with bright masts and lolling sterns, resting after long rides, or anticipating their next trip. A man in a Red Sox t-shirt rows towards land on his paint-chipped dinghy. The paddles dip and slide, dip, and slide across the waves, through the moving dark blue water. He paddles left a little and I see an old man in front of him, bending over the side of the boat to see what is below, how far down they’d be if they jumped in, his father probably. A musty, thick cloth lines the top of their small boat. Dad pulls out fishing gear while his son pulls in the boat, his hat backwards, his shoes topsiders. Dad takes his hat off and wipes his brow. He replaces his hat and takes a moment to consider the water. He’s happy to have spent the day with his son, happy that his son has told him that he’s going to propose to Amanda. Happy the sun is up, and his back’s not bothering him. His son backs up to latch the boat onto the hitch. Their shoes slide along the seaweed, but they’ve done this before. Back before the son went away, back before everything was moved around, displaced, changed. They drive away without a look back, leaving nothing but the waves to move forward and back, forward and back, glinting in the sun.

New York Loves Japan (Montreal)

We found Bob & Mariko's Bed & Breakfast the easy way. Google gave them to us without a blink. We had tried Priceline and Airbnb but found our wallets to thin and our expectations too high for both. Two hours before we planned to arrive, I found the website and the reviews were perfect, so Weston called. Bob's booming Bronx voice caught him off-guard, his tone seemed annoyed and crotchety.

"We have a room in the basement with a big bed but no windows." Weston whispered that to me and then told Bob he'd call back. We wouldn't be spending too much time in the room anyway, but his voice was extremely rude and so we called around some more with no luck. Bob & Mariko's it was. We grabbed a Dr. Pepper, tossed our bags in the car, and drove northwest into the setting sun. Literally. At one point Weston was wearing 3 pairs of sunglasses. Two hours later, we rolled up to the shady Park Slope-esque Rue Laval, and I saw a 70-year-old old man in a plaid shirt and a fedora sitting on the steps chatting with neighbors. Bob.

His voice was jarring at first, but he immediately morphed into a grandfather figure to me, his words slow and soothing, explaining that we should park on the other side of the road, that we're in the heart of dinner time, that they'll get you if you don't. His words all blended slowly together as he unlocked the bottom apartment door, asking if we got here alright, if the traffic was bad, and here's the corner where everyone looks at their computers, and breakfast is served between 9 and 10:15 and we have plenty of space and you have to stand on the bed to turn on the air conditioner and Mariko or myself will help get you all organized in the morning. He says he's like a Jewish grandmother (he sure sounded like one), he likes people, been doing this for 30 years. "Get yourselves a nice bottle of wine around the corner," he said, "they let you bring it into restaurants because of the province's ridiculous taxes on alcohol." He didn't dote or linger, just gave us the keys and told us to go have fun. After browsing the bookshelves in a corner nook of the basement, I was convinced that Bob and Mariko were lovers of the same sex, but you should never judge a book by his bookshelves, apparently.

The next morning, the creek and groan of the floorboards above our heads told us that it was time to make our way upstairs for breakfast. We were greeted at the top of the stairs by a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Mariko, a short, thin, John Lennon-bespectacled Japanese woman, which explained the bamboo and sumo theme in our guest room. I was way off. We were way off from the get go. Bob was hovering at the end of the breakfast table, a bit of jam dangling from his shaggy moustasche, getting everyone organized for the day - and invited us up to their apartment on the third floor to sign a few papers. After croissants, coffee, and a hard boiled egg, we climbed the winding stairs to Bob and Mariko's lair.

I was afraid it would smell like old people. I was afraid they would be smokers, or hoarders. But yet again I was wrong about Bob and Mariko. Their hardwood floors were clean and shined, their furniture sparse and practical. Bob had a typewriter balancing precariously on a pile of pillows in the bay window seat, along with the 1980's black and white television on mute. Their cat, Schwartz, slept quietly in a red sleigh on the floor. We sat on the couch and Bob told Weston where the market is, and what part of Mount Royal park there would be a drum concert. "There are a lot of alternative people there, you could go there to get a good contact high." His thick New York accent still didn't make sense to me in this posh French Canadian neighborhood, so we asked him how he got here. "I came on vacation 30 years ago and never left." I couldn't help but glance over at Mariko, smiling in the chair in the corner, pretending to read.

It goes without saying that if we had stayed anywhere else our experience in beautiful and strange Montreal would have been vastly different. We still would have tried on leather coats and cowboy boots at the vintage store down Rue St. Laurent, we would have bicycled too far past the old Olympic Stadium, and gotten caught int he rain on our way home. We would have still stumbled upon oddities like people in a vacant lot carving stones and people in wheelchairs watching children play in the park and drunk men stumbling into and out of fountains in the moonlight. But Bob and Mariko made the trip unexpectedly and extremely comfortable.

Musings (for Nick and Liz Metcalf)

If we zoom in close, right up close, we see two pairs of hands. Holding tight to one
another, tight to the life they’ve lived together, the work they’ve done to get here, the
prospects they have for one another. These hands have found each other, felt each
other’s skin, soft and rough, tan and pale, prepared for rings that will wrap around their
fingers.

Now zoom out and see the hands of the audience, clasping to one another or to
themselves, hands who know the work that love takes, the way it feels under our finger
tips. Hands ready for a rousing applause.

Now zoom in, and see two sets of eyes. Both blue, both deep and full of life. These eyes
locked many years ago, and were unable to resist one another’s gaze to this day. They’ve
seen all of the other’s beauty and generosity, as well as flaws and shortcomings. They’ve
watched each other grow.

If we zoom out, we see all of the eyes of their friends and families, watching a white
dress next to a grey suit, some of them wet with tears, all of them filled with happiness
and hope.

Now zoom in again, where we see two mouths, smiling at one another. Two mouths that
have shared the stories of their pasts and the anticipation of their futures, open wide and
laughing most of the time. Two mouths who have kissed, probably once or twice before
… and will kiss with promise and sanctity today in front of all of us.

Zoom out to over a hundred mouths, smiling and laughing along with them, quivering a
bit if crying, but happy and spread wide like the sky.

Now zoom back in, wayyyy in, to see beneath these fancy clothes and these layers of skin
and bone and muscle, two hearts. They are in sync now, bursting with excitement, ready
to spend the rest of their days in a happy, thumping dance, together.

Notice to Visitors : Henry Miller (Big Sur)

The undersigned wishes to inform all and sundry that he has long since left the Abode of Peace, that he no longer has any comfort or inspiration to offer, and that even the migratory birds avoid this spot. Prayers are offered up daily - without charge. The garden has been transformed into an open air Vespasienne. Look toward Nepenthe when you water the flowers. If you are seeking Truth travel a little farther south : you will find it at Ojai Chez Krishnamurti. Be kind to the children - they abide. For a metaphysical treat stop at the Big Sur Inn which is also a haven for stray cats and dogs. Life along the South Coast is just a bed of roses, with a few thorns and nettles interspersed. The life class meets every Monday regardless. Refreshments are served when demanded. Those interested in celestial navigation are advised to first obtain a rudimentary knowledge of integral calculus, phlebotomy, astral physics and related subjects. The use of liquor is strictly forbidden on interplanetary flights. When you come please be so kind as to check your neuroses and psychoses at the gate. Gossip may be exchanged during the wee hours of the morning when the gremlins have left. Please bear in mind that this is a small community and news travels fast. (Carrier pigeons are provided when necessary.) Fans and other obnoxious pests would do well to maintain silence. Questions relating to work-in-progress will be answered in stereotype fashion in the columns of the Big Sur Guide at the usual space rates. God is Love - and in the ultimate Love will prevail. Remember, man is the ruler, not Saturn! Let us do our best, even it if gets us nowhere. In the midst of darkness there is light. “I am the light of the world,” said Jesus. He said a mouthful. Light, more light!

Respectfully,

Henry Miller

Gabriel

An hour and a half train ride brought me to the rickety streets of Astoria each Monday and Friday for the last 6 months. Astoria is a neighborhood in Queens so jam-packed with different ethnicities that you can walk 8 blocks and hear 8 languages and eat 8 meals that all include a flat piece of bread but each are from different corners of the earth.

Lauren introduced me to Joanna about a year ago at a birthday party. Joanna came here 6 years ago from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to start a life for herself and her family. She came first, and became a speech pathologist at a charter school not far from where she lived. (This is where she met Lauren). Her father came at the same time, and got a job as well. Joanna is gorgeous, hard working, and loves her family more than life itself. Her mother and 13-year-old brother, Gabriel, stayed in Buenos Aires until a year ago, when she and her father had finally made enough money (and the proper paperwork) to bring the remaining two members of their family to America.

My charge was to tutor Gabriel on his homework and most importantly in preparation for the State Tests, which would happen in June. Gabriel is extremely intelligent, and was always kind to me even though I could tell he never wanted to be studying. He would rather be playing basketball with his friends, texting with his many lady friends, or listening to Lady Gaga. He is extremely good at math, and we talked about how the reason why is because it's a universal language. I remember loving teaching math to my kids in Thailand - they understood every word I said during those hours.

His mother is a beautiful, friendly Argentinean woman who smiles as she gives me a kiss on the cheek as I enter their cozy apartment, saying "how are you?" with a thick accent. She speaks only Spanish other than that, brings me coffee and always asks if I want sugar even though I never do. Pound cakes follow, or apple bread or strawberry short cake or one time even an enormous plate of home made pasta. When they all found out that I speak Spanish they got really excited, talked about it to one another for a while as I listened, understanding what they said. I think their excitement possibly shielded an underlying difficulty with the fact that they could not speak to one another so bluntly in Spanish while I was around.

Each Monday and Friday afternoon, Gabriel and I would sit at their dining room table, overlooked by an enormous painting of Jesus, working through math problems or typing out a book report. The back door was always open, what ever weather the day brought would join us at the table - bright sunlight, misty rain. I love doing Social Studies homework with him. We did questions on a chapter about the "Roaring 20's," and it was so interesting to explain to him who Babe Ruth was, and Hemingway, and what a flapper is. I take for granted all of the things I learned growing up just because I was an American. He confessed once that he loved when I came because I motivated him to finish things, that he wouldn't get them done as quickly if I wasn't there.

I said goodbye to Gabriel last week. He's finished with this year and will spend the summer with his mom in Argentina. What a life he has already lived. A childhood in Argentina. And an adulthood in New York City.

That Will Be $29.50

When I was young one of my dream jobs was to be a grocery store cashier. I'd stand in line at the Piggly Wiggly and watch as the gum-snapping 17 year old would "beep" each of our carefully chosen items through the scanner. I loved when the produce came along, because she'd have to type a long number into her keyboard, her purple eye shadow glinting in the fluorescent lights.

Yogurt - beep. Milk - beep. Apples - type type type. Honey Nut Cheerios - beep. Oranges - type type type. Cheddar - beep. Beer - beep. Carrots - type type type. Lunch meat - beep.

"That will be $29.50." I loved this part. My mom would hand her the cash, and she'd slide open the magical money drawer, perfectly organized with piles of green bills and compartments of coins. She'd flip up the little arm that held the bills down, add my mom's cash, and then slide out the change without even blinking, or realizing how cool her job was. I had a little experience with this part because I had played Monopoly with my brother a few times, and he let me be the banker. But this was the real deal! She had her own drawer!

"Would you like paper or plastic?" she'd say. I'd look up at my mom, who would always say "paper, please" but I didn't understand why until years later.

Now I go to the grocery store and watch the sad, bored girls slide my purchases across the scanner without looking me in the eye, fighting with their boyfriends via text underneath the counter, typing the wrong produce code into their computers, putting everything into plastic bags without asking. I still have the dream to be one of them someday, but for different reasons. I want to know what people are buying, how they are feeding their families, how much money they are spending on cheese, what the percentage of people who are bringing canvas bags is. I guess in some ways dreams never die.

Today is Paradise - Constant and Conquerable

She wore lace on her dress and in her hair, his smile was wide and their vows were proud. To stand next to a friend as she marries the one she loves is the highest honor, and to speak to them on a breezy June afternoon in the presence of loved ones is even higher. With a friend like Carrie, there are secrets hidden deep within our red right ankles and down under the quiet pillows of our friendship, and there are elaborate stories that only our imaginations can understand, so all I could say was this:

One way of knowing love is to furtively act with courage. To swim in all of it whenever something somewhere whispers it. And in those moments, vivid, beautiful hallucinations of strength and hope live for a moment in you. Heart and hands, sweat and dust. The songs, the processions, the banners. We shall explode in enormous love. We think of happy yesterday, we survive on it. Party if joyless, make love in the dim lamplight. Kissing life - thinking bigger, healthier, stronger, happier. Today is unchangeable and your heart is working, so roar and bleed and hope and drink gin like in the old days. Oh zigzagging, oh revolution, oh tiny sea. It feels like a kind of dance, it is oranges and lemons and not fright or pain – but peace – freedom – strength. The heart bangs – I.LOVE.YOU. It remembers everything, it smiles. Love is love – powerful and troubling. Love is virtuosity and singing, breathing fast, kneeling face-to-face, pleasant helplessness and communication. Zealous love, kaleidoscope love. Love love love love love love love – magenta, sun blazed ripe heart – pleasant tomorrow tenderness. Love – sweet summer air, happy melancholy – lips, cheeks, nose, eyes, cavernous mouth, naked calves and ankles, hands – a man and a woman and a spontaneous tomorrow. Alive with love. The most necessary and overwhelming task is to settle into bliss, to understand bodies and to progress as a united being. The world is explosive and arbitrary. It’s marvelous. Today is paradise – constant and conquerable. Party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party. Relaxation and enthusiasm. Continuous possession of absolute truth. Concessions to and fro of fear and hatred. The love, the craving, the porcelain cheekbones, the poetry, the pain. The furious stream of blood and saliva, the humming and the laughing – elbows and eyelids – ears and weeping and confessions and sleep and silent breath. All of us sweat and pulse. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes, we exist, we grasp happiness, we realize the universes inside of love. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. Life will zip forward and snap you suddenly into character and after that it is all improvisation. The one certain thing is that love is without thought – it is a deep ocean, violent and calm. An extraordinary medley of you and you, of life, death, and of triumphant victory.