Portland Blues

I admit it; I’ve got the Portland blues. I’m so blue I need a semicolon to communicate it and I don’t even know why or what a semicolon is really for in writing, although some writers swear by its nuance. Fuck nuance! I’ve got the damn blues! I should have used a dash—no nuance in that.

Rain is lightly falling as I write this from an upstairs window seat with a decent view of Mt. Hood. I have a lot of unique Oregon experiences in iconic Oregon places, but not a single Mt. Hood one. I doubt I ever will unless someone leads the way.

More death befell my family, an uncle, my dad’s younger brother, passed away yesterday. Cancer. Death has really been going hard to the body, like Rocky to Apollo, against my family these past three months. It seems like more could be on the way.

I’ve got a friend of almost 30 years in the city who won’t drive six miles to see me while others drove six hours. I need to reevaluate that friendship and when you employ the word reevaluate in the context of a friendship, it’s pretty much over.

I can’t seem to write a lick of anything except for these posts. I’ve got great notions for essays about The Rockford Files and Milan Kundera vying with Jules Verne for contemporary relevance, but really, who will gain anything by reading a thousand words of mine about the greatness and enduring warmth of The Rockford Files?

I just finished reading the latest edition of Street Roots, the fantastic weekly magazine about the homeless issue in Portland and around Oregon. They profiled all the men, 42, who died from the virus while incarcerated. It was outstanding journalism and inspires me to want to write that kind of journalism. I have that ability and desire to report this story, but no one will give me a chance. I’ve pretty much been eradicated from having my writing published in any publication besides one of my own.

I want a dog. I have a strange book about dogs coming out soon and I don’t own a dog.

There is such flakiness afoot in my life. Winning isn’t everything, following through is. When you say you are going to show up on a certain day, then show up. People think texting they can’t make it a couple of hours before they are expected to arrive absolves the flakiness. I think I almost preferred the days when someone simply didn’t show up at all.

My creature comforts have risen exponentially the last couple of months, and I feel indifferent, although I should be grateful when so many people have none.

Am I getting soft after years of steely determination and austerity?