Portland: Entry Point

Hello, World.

It's 7:19am over here in Portland. Oregon, not Maine. though I do wonder if Portland, Maine is ever jealous that Portland, Oregon gets all the fame.

Today will be the first day of soul searching. Of actively thinking about things and writing them down. 'cause having things on e-paper translates into accountability.

I'm writing from the living room now. on the couch. the view to my right, a multi-floor parking lot. the roof is like the one you see in Fargo. without the snow and the shooting and the driving off with red spots in the spots.

how many hours has it been? maybe I should start a counter. that'll be for today. to javascript a clock that count-downs. or up. a clock that counts. clocks are the hardest working people I know. they work, umm, 'round the clock. and no one can really beat that.

unless you go at it with a wooden bat. and smash splinters around.

clock-bashing. not unlike gay bashing. though clock activists seem to be less vocal about their opinions. mostly due to their recent switch away from analog into the digital realm.

it's surprisingly cold here in Porti-land. not cold. that's a bit too much. it's chilly. the nice kind of wake-up-in-the-morning-with-Folgers-in-your-cup-with-a-sweater-wrapped-around-you-smoke-drifting-out-of-the-cup-into-your-nostrils chilly.

bare-foot-cold-tile-floor chilly.

surprise número dós. (maybe I'm throwing toó many accents around, it Latinizes everything. same how the ümlaut Germanizes everything. say, a half-pipe).

the second surprise: how easy it is to get away from everything.

Maybe these shouldnt' be online. I'm on text edit right now. way underrated program. but that's enough 'bout text-edit.

back to getting away from it all. for two hundred forty dollars, I started a new life for three weeks.

that means a back-pack, a suitcase, a ticket, and five hours later, I have a new life.

but only for three weeks.

and the flight wasn't even half bad. I know this might turn into an indirect JetBlue promotion, but that maybe that doesn't matter. maybe they earned their name-dropping today. or maybe that in itself should be a separate blog.

back to my point: five hours and I'm across the country. as far away as I can be from responsibility without crossing Canada and touching any other country. maybe California is farther, but that's not the point.

this all sounded so well thought out when I was writing it in bed. in my head.

if I can just pack up and leave for 3 weeks. how hard is it to pack up and leave for 3 years? 6 years? I found myself saying pretty damn easy. I just did it in two days. and theoretically, some people could do it within hours.

where does that leave us? anywhere we want to go. there's really no holding back.

given that I already had a place to stay and knew people. so maybe that's a big part of the equation.

what does it say about me when I feel that there's not much in NYC to keep me there? not my mom. nor my sis. 'cause they'll be fine with or without me. (sidebar: make a list of clichés to avoid, sidebar within sidebar: what kind of word is 'cliché'? french?)

and same with friends. I don't have a girlfriend whose arms I can run into when I land at JFK. friends come and go. you always make new friends. so where is the attachment? my metaphorical ball-n-chain? my anchor? and sundry heavy objects that weight things down?

maybe the only thing that can keep me in NYC is the repulsion of other cities.

or maybe the only thing that can keep us from moving are the reasons we make up. the attachments we have. maybe I don't feel attached to NYC. it's only been three years.

maybe my biological clock is saying get out of there.

maybe I like to say maybe all the time. maybe 'cause it makes me sound logical and considerate of alternative opinions to my own. open to be wrong.

what's in store for today? 7:46am

I want to write three times a day. write more than I eat. make room for new thoughts. actively look for it. something.

the sun is up.

7:51am

cars are driving by. it's that time of the day.

maybe I'll just have small writing times. five, six times a day. once every five, six hours. wake up in the middle of the night. with my eyes closed. and ghost typing in the air. sleep walking my thoughts into the keyboard.

and when all my dreams are done, bam, slump back into bed.

and start cooking. sorry. didn't mean to throw that out there at you like that. without warning. uninstigated (though that's not the word I'm looking for).

yes. me. cooking. let's just leave it for now and see how it develops.

it's nice that there's a tree right next to the parking lot. though taller, I'm sure it'll lose in a fight with the parking lot. there's just so much more concrete.

8am: maybe I'm done spilling my guts out.