final thoughts on a city of rain

this whole thing started almost a year ago. then, sitting in my comfortable co-op in madison, listening to jazz, i could not have pictured these faces that came into and shaped my life. and things were good there.. my life was there, friends, certainty, safety. sarah was there.

we drove across the country, couchsurfing along the way.. in my mind, it was a sort of great american past-time. my path emptied into a meditation retreat, scenes on a seattle beach, guitars, randomness. i was at a motel 66 in eugene, crossing the street on my way to a thai restaurant when i saw, for the first time, a young fellow from baltimore, his name david. we joined company and ate and the next day departed for the summer's work, thereby entering into another whole long world.

three months later i awoke from the painfully harsh and beautiful dream of trees and mountains and labor, and returned to my many addictions and comforts, into the city. yes! and thank god it was there: to feed the monkey on my shoulder, to drip onto my reeling mind, the great, irreplaceable drug of civilization. it is my mother and father, and after the summer, i felt myself a baby, crawling my way back to the monster. this time the monster was a darkly-lit, mysterious city, the capital of the underside, where all freaks eventually pass.. portland.

by then i had grown accustomed to david. and rose as well.. a young women i met on the trail, local to the area, of whom i was, at the time, naively excited about. i felt emboldened- i think we all did... being discharged like a group of wild animals into this city- pockets stuffed with cash. i was drunk on the exuberance of starting something new, something yet undefined and alluring with its potential. the momentum carried us with little effort of our own. the possibility of community was there.. of redefining ourselves in our own ways.

and so we did. the girl and i burnt out right away.. like a disappointing chinese firework.. a dud of the heart. it seems that whatever it was we had, couldn't survive the transition from the woods to the streets. david was still there though, and we ventured forward, onward, into a dark and exciting unknown. It was then I first met kristen.. an artistic girl.. a girl with this spunkyness about her. the kind of girl that you see in a photograph somewhere and get the feeling she's really cool somehow; that someday, you're gonna have friends like that. right there on the edge of the wave.. i have the tremendous feeling that i want to be apart of it. that's not just kristen; all of portland's like that. i remember thinking about the city before i ever saw it.. even then then was the electricity running through some mental/visual association i had. where, dear god, do these things come from?

we stayed at kristen's place for 3 weeks. we dumpster-dived, and played chess and smoked and drank. we philosophized. and there was this porch.. that goddman place where we were more alive and hidden, tucked away in some corner of northwest... the scenes.. they were totally new! bam. stars mother fucker. and we all see stars.

david found some place eventually. it was deep north and i wasn't thrilled, but at $245, the attraction overcame the weight of resistance. we were the minority in the house then.. it was they who already lived there. it was an empty house in both the physical as well as the social- quiet and uptight. indeed, that poor fuck called shad spoke no more than 100 words the entire month or two he lived there. ye god!

slowly though it changed. and as they began to leave, we filled the spots with our own. in no time at all, the house took on a new air. a feeling not so stifled by a long and stagnant culture of reservation and hiding. carla was coming. we were bringing back the magic from the summer.

-winter in portland-

i remember the max in the winter. the streets, the cars.. goddamn puddles of half melted snow splashing from car tires.. that scene i have seen since birth. it's different in winter, and of course so. how does one describe this? the feeling isn't felt until it passes and then one day, months later, you're going about your day and you hear a song, and like a pure shot in the mainline it hits you.. and vaguely haunts you.. suddenly this forgotten and beautiful vein is hit and the neural networks explode and the feeling, the FEELING comes flooding back. smells do that too.. especially smells of girls.. so anyway, it hit last night and this whole forgotten world consumed me once again. fuck is it good. here it is: we were in my room, probably listening to sam harris, philosophizing, sharing dinner. candles and ohms. what was it? i don't know. brotherhood. yes, a brotherhood.. and i am thankful for that.

the snow melted and another world consumed me without my permission.. god, without my even knowing. and suddenly, here i am. in the boring, listless present. did any of that winter magic ever really occur?

i take another sip and feel the strange warm fogginess thicken around me. let me tell you.. now let me tell you of the dark city we call portland...

in the city of lights, portland, the scenes sometimes blend into one, the bridges, the stores, streets, buses. and i was driving with erin across one of those bridges, a high one, above the city, looking down, looking at the lights. a giant monster, breathing, deeply, alive.. at the bottom of the sea. from the bridge i can almost hear its devourous grumble. what makes that deep sound that vibrates in my body? there are thousands of travelers walking cracked sidewalks and cars and trucks and bikes zooming in the darkness in every direction. a thousands voices, and a thousands stories.. surely, it is them who make the noise. but there's something else as well.. an anonymous buzz coming somewhere from the belly itself.. its source unknown.

i biked around portland the first time i came here. it was almost a year ago now. i was staying at ian's house and he let me use the bike. i went to wherever it took me.. lost in the city. then of course, the streets were still unknown.. unrecognizable. now i can look back and with these new eyes, these new neural networks formed, i have some understanding of those streets. it was daytime then, so the beast was still asleep... i felt a certain difference. no doubt we all do. the safety and piety of the daylight and that holiness there. like mother's perfumed sweater.

a city like this is some sort of project that we are all collectively apart of. there's something that connects us by being here. a shared experience of the monster. it's subterranean, underground, underneath.. subconscious. this primitive, dark, lizard where we dwell.

-spring again-

my final departure is schedule and is now imminent and irreversible. the loss of this city and my friends in their current form is difficult and i feel the whisper of death (and life) through it. everything is changing and passing. as i leave portland, i find myself thinking again about erin. in some way, this is the far-off, last remaining link i have with her. soon that too will be washed up in the continuous outpouring of time, and fade in my memory until there is only an image in my mind of what we once had. david will remain close to my heart, and there will always be this experience that we shared.. a brief and beautiful moment of freedom, when are paths crossed and we created together.

life is beautiful and strange. i was thinking about where and who i may end up as, and it seems i've always known that i'll be back in madison with family and close friends. this has been an incredible year of growth and amazing experiences. the portland experiment was worthwhile. it lasted 7 months. I got to know the monster in an intimate way, and for that I feel grateful. and now, it is coming to its final end. in my heart there is grace and gratitude for all that has been. in my mind, i feel the tremendous force of life like a tidal wave crashing down on us all.. overwhelming me, propelling me, flowing wildly through me. it is all i can do, to let it go.

be well,

eric

christmas eve

it's christmas eve again, in the city of lights that never goes dark, and those numerous bridges all along the  riverway.  the snow came, last week sometime, but now the rain is here and comes down in persistent waves, melting all the white magic gathered along the roadside.  i was with david in a coffeehouse in the st. john's district,

north, and looking out those large picture windows, steamed up and foggy.  a bar across the street had christmas

lights in the door, and old men would come out, every now and then, with a drunken expression of neon christmas cheer on their worn faces.  just a few of us here now, in this old place, and a soft holiday jazz coming from the back somewhere.  

it's a good afternoon in portland, grey and wet; good for smoking cigarettes and hudling under rafters and  awnings. it's happening all over.  and i bet in new york they're all in the streets, talking to each other, seeing each other.  more willing.  that's what the holidays do to you, all of you, unsuspecting folks.  the nostolgia manifests spontaneously in the air we breathe and scenes we see, the bus tires splashing through the brown slush on city streets.. the strange recognition of some early childhood vision, some forgotten celebration. what is this? 

then.. it passes. and we're here.  same chair, same windows, same me, but different.  the magic disappears.  and 

we all forget again. 

ok,ok,ok.....re eric s post....i want to write about limitations in different art forms and the importance of variety in medium when expressing something ....also, the agenda of the artist.  i really like your focus on the breaking down of societal habits, etc and i like your method of doing so, performance art.  i think we are in the age of diversified art and that art as the white box with paintings in it is losing its dominance.  i think it's important to hang on to the many methods of expressing something though, painting included, because there are so many ideas....each one requires a particular delivery and yours seems best expressed in performance.  you want to bring social patterns, the human experience, and honest interaction to attention, that's awesome....doing so will involve direct human relationships, on a bus wherever.  personally, i am edging into a more activist sort of art and i struggled with a recent reading on painter Agnes Martin.  i was working on a commentary 'painting' about pharmaceuticals, the benefits, the downsides, the individual, the corporation, etc.....and Martin's work (pictured above) seemed self-indulgent, meditative on a personal level, isolated, without context, safe, idle, what have you....i think i devalued her work (at that time) because it wasn't working towards the social awareness and change (?) i was.  as artists, we all have different agendas or intentions even if we're not conscious of it, and that's one of the things i think is most empowering about art.  you can make that choice.  you can let your art just flow from you or you can make it a reaction to what you see as the purpose of art at a certain time....these modes are often in flux.  a prof helped me realize the value of Martin's objectives in relation to my own; 'see her work as a beacon from which you diverge;' her work influenced the conscious purpose i put into mine, it helped me clarify my intent...to say nothing of how well it expresses her idea.  point is, some ideas look their best in 3d form, others in performance.  each artistic delivery has its own set of limitations.  -ker

Alternative Forms of Art and the Comfort of the Easily Accessible

a physical painting is, perhaps, the most tangible form of art.  here i am holding this fucker in my hands.. it's real, you can see it, i can see it, let's talk about it.  there's a certain groundedness in that, which i appreciate, but as a whole, the form seems somewhat limited.  art museum: i walk in and i am empowered as the subject to examine and analyze and judge the static pieces around me.  what a priviledge yo.  i view the art as i want, under the power of my own opinions/choices..  i'm somehow safe.  there's an agreed upon set of rules in the museum and the gallery: we'll all walk in and see the art and talk about it and retain our sense of safety and idle in our comfort zones.  to me, nothing much is accomplished.  i don't think paintings, art museums, etc. are without value at all; there's much to learn about ourselves and the world through such things.  my idea for today is not to inspire a conversation about paintings, and what they offer, but rather, to suggest an alternative creative form: performance art.

the shortcomings of painting- indeed all static art- that i mentioned above are redeemed through performance art.  perhaps that's painting with too broad strokes, and not all performance art fits the bill, but the kind i have in mind certainly does: art designed to challenge the often invisible, societal rules that govern (and, emphatically limit) the way we relate to each other.  "hi man, how's it going? how's your life going?"  "what.  oh.  good."  nevermind that he may feel a large amount of anxiety on a daily-basis, the pain and isolation of being alive.. or the joy of connecting with another human, with accomplishing a goal.  those things don't count.  no, let's keep it at the normal, accepted, safe level of superficiality.  i don't blame the individual, they're simply playing out the conditioning they've been programmed with.  but as a collective, we should begin to examine these things.  this is what is important to me.  this is what excites me about art.  To break the monotony of everyday existience, to create a new experience, to have a feeling uncommon on the emotional spectrum, to simply take a detour from the laid-out, well-worn path of countless generations before us... these are a worthy goal.

to this end, david and i designed a performance art piece called 'the happy bus project'.  it has numerous variations (from trying to produce a real social good to simply being bizarre), but essentially entails opening up to a stranger on a public bus and engaging in a meaningful conversation.  "what are you doing with your time here?" "how are you feeling today?" "tell me about this experience."  these are the sorts of questions that we ask.  the goal is two-fold: firstly, the conversation is an end in itself, a sort of worthwhile experience with the time we sacrifice commuting.  the second return is that others (hopefully) will witness this interaction between two strangers and become inspired to open their own hearts more.  wow, it's actually possible for two strangers to open up and talk to each other and be supportive.  there's some more iterations, but this is the gist of it.

to deconstruct social patterns/belief systems/unseen assumptions inside of us, we need a sharp blade. and a sustained effort.  it's actually a near impossible task to take this to its furthest conclusion.. to be totally free from it all.  fortunatly, it's a graduated scale: the more we deconstruct, the more open our minds become.  it's not all or nothing.  for those of us concerned with this task, we can make headway by applying discipline and consciousness.  even then, it's tough-going, what to speak of those who aren't even aware or trying to do this.  the happy bus project gets through this wall by disguising itself as part of everyday life.  here's the important part- with some exceptions, we don't tell people they are part of a performance art piece.  this way they cannot pigeon-hole it as 'some wierd art thing', contain it in their minds as such, and subsequently dismiss it.  the idea is that it works with or without their approval.

okay for now you freaks.  onwards to openness!

-eric (shorter of the two)

first post!

First poster!  suck it eric!

Collaboration: A Million Monies

killing in the streets of Portland is never as horrific as it is in other cities, like say Stumptown.  Poison is the number one killer amoung city folk.  "Two blocks down on your right, under the bright neon sign that reads So Much Good Comet That's not beer or pop you're sticking to...that's blood."  The blood flowed down the cracks of the sidewalk reflecting the neon lights until it reached the shadow of the man on the corner six feet down--under the street light, yellow and dull like the fading shades of life striving to live like daylight.  The blood pooled on this corner, pooled and pooled and pooled and pooled, pooled into the shape of a woman, just as the man imagined.  She was beautiful and voluptuous, ruby red until the horrors of the passing of time turned her a rusty brown.  Coagulation, biology's life saving grace, the man's lifeline to the real world.  KABOOM!  his insides shot out onto the bloodstained cobblestone.  Meanwhile she sped along the coastline under the bright moonlight...

suddenly a monkey appeared in the moonlight.  Something silver shown bright in the monkey's eye.  Was it the reflection of the once sterling woman?  It was the moon, clearly the moon--clearly reflecting, reflecting the shapes--and all the shapes slowly began to shift into Bananas.  yellow, freckled bananas, at the apex of ripeness.  the monkey's mouth started to salivate (insert thin monkey tongue salivating here) he was reaching, pulling out each strip of skin to lay a carpet paved with potassium sulfite, the only suitable path to his branch, his home, the Bed In The Tree.  His grunt flows through the leaves of the upper canopy signaling, ready, prepared for sleep.  The potassium sulfite soaked into his nest and a deep sleep overcame the monkey.  Dreaming came easy, and the shapes, once in his eyes, crowded his consciousness comfortably.  Viscous shapes, thick red liquid, shapes that were terrifying and seductive, specious like a female monkey in heat.  Swollen, pregnant with fantasy and fiction, his creature brain unfolded scenarios so 

obscenely beautiful that he awoke, sweating.  He was startled...by the creations of his mind.  (erased in print) Twenty years later, sitting with his seven children close by, he shed a tear and stared deeply into the glowing flames (end erased print) of twenty years ago...(begin erased print again) I must continue my mission.  To give up now would (end erased print) my life, the kicks, gone?  Away?  Question mark?

THE END