I take a walk around Clackamette Park\non a cloudy December morning and admire the boatless rivers. I stop\nnear the confluence, near a large pile of cottonwoods blown up there\nby a flood. A shiny purple bag on the ground arrests my attention.\nResting near the bag, a syringe. I consider the syringe and its\nprovenance. I consider the syringes encountered everywhere I go:\nbeaches, woods, rivers, streams, streets, sidewalks, parking lots,\nparks, trails. I consider what this might mean for American culture. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An elderly man spooks me out of my\nconsideration of the abandoned syringe. He has materialized from the\nstanding cottonwoods, the ones with exquisite beaver gnawings, the\nones about ready to fall. He says \u201cMerry Christmas\u201d in a Russian\naccent. I say \u201cMerry Christmas\u201d to him. He moves on. I watch him\nwalk over the purple bag and syringe and stop at the river’s edge. He\nurinates into the river and then kneels over and washes his hands. I\nmove along and talk to squirrels and geese. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the Promenade later, I watch a lone\nsmokestack puff smoke or steam or whatever it is. Two Japanese\ntourists snap photographs of the falls and the sprawling and\nspellbinding industrial site. The Elevator beckons me to ride, but I\ndon’t have time, although I still have my lifetime pass somewhere\namong my memorabilia, things from my past that I would dearly love to\nhave around me again. I have lived some great stories on this\nPromenade. I have been in love with someone here, many, many years\nago. It’s a great place to walk and talk with someone you love. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I find another syringe. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I see a transient wearing a striped\nponcho standing on a rock, talking loudly to himself. He yells\nsomething to me. I wave and keep walking. I see the I-205 bridge,\neasily the ugliest bridge in Oregon, one without a shred of grace. In\nits foreground, I see the old Conde McCullough bridge, one of the\nmost beautiful, graceful bridges in Oregon. I consider the contrasts\nbetween these two bridges and what it reveals about American culture.\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The historic houses are decorated for\nChristmas. They get me in the mood. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What a place to hold a writing\nworkshop, on this Promenade! The benches are perfect for writing. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Time to go meet an old Oregon City\nacquaintance in a dive Oregon City bar. Oregon City is still classic\nOregon Tavern Age country and I hope a few of these joints will\nalways remain. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One day, I hope to bring out my book\nabout growing up in Oregon City in the 70s and 80s. I’ve got about\n15,000 words on it so far, but it feels a bit formless. More visits\nto this unique Oregon town will help firm it up. \n<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I take a walk around Clackamette Park on a cloudy December morning and admire the boatless rivers. I stop near the confluence, near a large pile of cottonwoods blown up there by a flood. A shiny purple bag on the ground arrests my attention. Resting near the bag, a syringe. I consider the syringe and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5662,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[5,942],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5661","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-meditations","category-oregon-city","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5661","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5661"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5661\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5664,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5661\/revisions\/5664"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5662"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5661"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5661"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5661"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}