A Long forgotten project. As I have been tied up in a complicated mess I have put zero effort into anything but the aforementioned mess, as it has required ALL my time and energy. But with that said. Here, is something to fill space and excerpt.
It’s fall here now. And in Portland, in fall, people line up at coffee shops so that they can get their hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee to stave off the cold air that the winter brings. And in the cold air of winters, people in Portland seem to have a buzz about them, like electricity has filled the air and things that had grown old and made us weary are new again. The seasons, it seem, change our views on life, like our burdens have been lifted and we are once again free to breathe.
It’s cold outside and I am settling into my new place, a studio at 21st and Everett in the heart of Portland’s pearl district. And although the studio is new to me, it is entrenched in a history from the early twenties, an era I have grown to admire. And have often felt as if I were to be born in. But perhaps, this is because I grew up in a craftsman house with a fruit orchard and large oak trees that would sway in the heavy winds, and, because back then they knew how to build things with a quality that would last. And I liked that. And this new, old, studio reminds me of that place, my childhood. A time that seems so far removed from the troubles that life has brought. And so, for now, I am here unpacking boxes that are reminiscent of times gone by.
Rosa’s in the kitchen putting away dishes and silverware, She is putting food onto shelves in the cabinets and boiling water for tea, She too likes the studio.
Staring into my bedroom, slash, living room, I notice a few more boxes left to unpack. Important boxes. Boxes that matter, boxes that make my life feel important, and define my life. Boxes with important things in them, things like legal documents, and books I’ve yet to read, and Instant coffee. Boxes, of Macaroni and cheese and Twinkies. These are the things that, for the last few years have defined my life’s purposeful.
And as I unpack the boxes, I spot what seems to be a secret door of an old build in ice-chest tucked just underneath the kitchen counter that has been painted white as to blend in with the rest of the kitchen cabinets. It’s several layers of paint showing through chips around its edges, and a lever you can pull to open it with. And inside the chest is another door, now sealed, that once, lead to the hallway. I stare at the ice chest for a while and think to myself “I bet I can fit through there”. Weighing the odds of becoming stuck like Whiney the Pooh. And for fear of having to explain to well-defined firemen why I chubby guy like myself would try to fit through a ridiculously small hole in the first place, I decide not to try. And think to myself “ maybe it’ time to lose weight” but digress, as I unwrap a Twinkie and continue to unpack all of the important boxes.
