Sometimes mood isn’t anchored to anything. Sometimes it’s lashed to a sunken rock. In Portland it’s married to rain.
Every year I meet new comers to Portland and when spring comes they brighten and start to talk about how they barely survived the last the six months of dark gray and rain. They think the gloom is an aberration and I can never figure out if it’s kinder to tell them it was an average fall and winter or let them find out on their own.
As a veteran of the pacific northwest I sometime wonder if it’s safe to go out when the sun is shining…
The other night there was a warm cherry blossom wind and spring had come (tease) and I was following a brass band around. At one point I was sitting in the middle of an art gallery on a doublewide chaise lounge, which was upholstered in lilac corduroy while The Original Duke of Hominy Brass Band paraded around me in their dirty whites. Or at least it felt like they were parading around me because I was on the corduroy island. That’s the thing about orientation. It’s all about personal North.
Art. No one wants it. No one asks for it. Everything worthwhile is awkward—that’s what I was thinking at least.