We Do As We Can.
So much to write about. After a full day of teaching I think I'll stay simple and plain.
Taking the bus, I've remarked in the past, is a wonderful event in character creation for any would-be writer. The young girl, engrossed with a novel, sits alone to my left. A tattoo of the letters "JSR" in black London font are displayed on her upper arm. An elder woman sits in the aisle-facing seat before me, kitting needles feverishly working yarn into a cable knit. I could sit for hours here and never stop describing what was around me. But this ride is not immortal, and neither are these characters.
After a while, I enter Powell’s on Burnside for a sit, coffee and new environment to write what I see. I strike up conversation with a 20-something girl who tells me she's moved to Portland only two weeks earlier. She transferred here from San Diego to attend the Art Institute in the Pearl District and lives out in Beaverton with friends. "I really like this town," she tells me, "but I haven't been here long enough to see a lot of it yet." I play ambassador for a moment and explain a bit about how the city is four quadrants split by Burnside Avenue and the Willamette River. I tell her some of the proper pronunciations of street names and locations in the city, nicknames, and giver her a few titles to read that may help her enjoy Stumptown a little further. She seems genuinely grateful, if not perplexed that a stranger would be so forthcoming without looking for reciprocity. "I love my home State, is all. I'd rather be diplomatic than isolationist."
We do as we can, after all. I expect that most everyone, everywhere would agree when it came down to thinking about it. The bus, the bookstore, the bizarre.
Taking the bus, I've remarked in the past, is a wonderful event in character creation for any would-be writer. The young girl, engrossed with a novel, sits alone to my left. A tattoo of the letters "JSR" in black London font are displayed on her upper arm. An elder woman sits in the aisle-facing seat before me, kitting needles feverishly working yarn into a cable knit. I could sit for hours here and never stop describing what was around me. But this ride is not immortal, and neither are these characters.
After a while, I enter Powell’s on Burnside for a sit, coffee and new environment to write what I see. I strike up conversation with a 20-something girl who tells me she's moved to Portland only two weeks earlier. She transferred here from San Diego to attend the Art Institute in the Pearl District and lives out in Beaverton with friends. "I really like this town," she tells me, "but I haven't been here long enough to see a lot of it yet." I play ambassador for a moment and explain a bit about how the city is four quadrants split by Burnside Avenue and the Willamette River. I tell her some of the proper pronunciations of street names and locations in the city, nicknames, and giver her a few titles to read that may help her enjoy Stumptown a little further. She seems genuinely grateful, if not perplexed that a stranger would be so forthcoming without looking for reciprocity. "I love my home State, is all. I'd rather be diplomatic than isolationist."
We do as we can, after all. I expect that most everyone, everywhere would agree when it came down to thinking about it. The bus, the bookstore, the bizarre.
Patch Adam Perryman wrote this at 23:56
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