As the decaf parts my lips, my brain goes on a race of ideas. I downloaded a tune from the "i" and laced the shoes. I have an 8:00 pm call and it's balmy; no scarf, packed bag and head up. It's time to stomp across the Willamette towards my illuminated city. The refraction of reflection was seen as a chaotic delineated path, but last night it felt peaceful. For all the distortion, a realization of examined piecing together brought a start of understanding.
Adam Levine is booming in the plugs; no one has moves like Jagger... I got the opening to "Center Stage" running in my head; I have three pans of the camera set. First: Jackie Gleason-ing, with a busker plie' turn wrapping black p-coat around the bod for protection; bending knee pop, smiling. A bit of Gene Kelly stomping down the stoop stairs through the court yard across the damp tiles. Second: knee popping while the crosswalk sign gives the permission or traffic ceases; it's southeast, intention and determination is a commonality we all share; besides shades of black. The neon from the tattoo parlor, sandwich shop and instrumental repair buzzing overhead while coat is widely waiving to the swish of the backside; hitch kick, cross the asphalt. Third: hit the Morrison; orange sign says sidewalk closed; missed it and it's message. City Center is getting larger and larger with every approaching stomp.
Grab another decaf with one raw sugar; hit Broadway. Damn, the Portland marquee draping the Ave. with glory and light. Sign in, two elevators, plus a maze in the underground; I arrive to the fourth floor, enter the room and become the next character, Butch. Luck, work, collaboration and determination. I may never understand why, but I get the how. Maybe I do have a move like Jagger...
Portland, I chose you eight years ago because of the settled feeling I felt when I entered your urban boundary. I'll order a plate of overabundance of opportunity; with a side of chance. Wash you down with a glass of support and encouragement.
