i'd rather be in portland

on first times, being present, and the pleasure of place

Last week, i joined another Artist’s Way reading group. This will be my fourth attempt at reading the book in its entirety; my third in a group setting. I’m deciding to ditch hope as a verb, and instead am choosing to let it thrive as the pretty, feathered noun that it is. I no longer hope for anything. I strive, aim, grab, want, run towards, need, sometimes wrangle, oftentimes abandon — things. Hope (verb) is dead (to me). I don’t mean that in a morbid, dark, self-loathing way. Hope, at least when it comes to myself, more specifically the things that I want and need to do and accomplish for myself, leaves too much room for divine intervention. Unfortunately, I do need to feel pressure to get shit done; to make decisions in a timely manner; to accomplish my goals. So, boot, meet neck.

All that to say, I am striving to successfully complete the book this time. The crux of this creative accountability course (as I see it) is the “morning pages” practice — three pages written in a journal first thing, each and every morning, no matter what. It’s, arguably, a great habit on a good day and a pain in the ass on a bad one. The point of the practice is to get the proverbial creative juices flowing first thing in the morning, and to willingly, habitually, spill said juices across the page(s). (The author even goes as far as to say that you shouldn’t go back and read your past entries, but I don’t know about that.) It doesn’t matter what you write about, and you should not write with the intention of your writing being “good” or even legible. Your notebook is an incubator and a graveyard to which only you have access. No thought is too small or too insignificant; they just are.

With that, I’m abandoning the idea that I don’t have anything interesting to say. And by extension, dismantling the identity that I’ve built (almost completely) around being elsewhere.

Maybe it’s the…general disillusionment of being alive, or inflation, or some planetary placement, or 30 being right there, but chasing novelty is becoming exhausting. Of course I still value new experiences, I always have, I always will, but I would love to be able to value the now too. I’ve spent my 20s chasing the novelty of the next space and, as a result, have consequently denied myself the pleasure of place. More on that later.

We moved to Portland one year (and 14 days) ago today. The day after Christmas, we left for Oregon from New Orleans, with overnight stays in Dallas, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Twin Falls, Salt Lake City, Boise. Our car (the car we bought a mere 13 days before our trip) broke down on an icy highway 3/4ths of the way through our drive, somewhere in Idaho. Terrifying, to say the least.

It was the first time my car broke down in a snowy place, on what was technically my first cross-country roadtrip. That turned into my first overnight stay in Twin Falls, Idaho, and the first time that I got my car back from any mechanic in less than 24 hours. It was also the first time that a blonde waitress named Wanda (from New York City) gave me a free slice of huckleberry pie, with vanilla ice cream and plastic spoon.

I opened the door to our house for the first time 2 nights later on New Year’s Day, the first of so many firsts last year.

I’d never taken time to reflect on these events, on those hours, on that drive. Ironically, it’s not until right now, as I write this, that I’m taking the time to do so. Another first.

Everything is novel if you pay attention.

Portland has been good. Both to and for me.

When I sat down, I swore that this wouldn’t be a soliloquy on the new year, but moving forward without reflection is so 2023. So, we reflect! In no particular order of importance or impact (à la Artist’s Way), here are some things that happened last year.

I baked a cherry pie with cherries from my own tree. Coworkers, Instagram followers and neighbors turned into friends. We got Christmas cards (in the mail!) from 3 people. I saw Wu-Tang Clan and hiked to more than one waterfall. I got a puppy. My third nephew was born and I washed my AirPods in the washing machine (they still work). I finally got a global entry appointment! 43 people came to our Friendsgiving party. I ran through a sunflower field. I got sober. I did pilates and rode in a hot air balloon. My sister graduated from college. I bought a lot of books. I read a few of them. I saw snow in a rainforest. I joined a book club. I was uncomfortable. I furnished my house. I said yes more often than I said no. I got a proper winter coat. I saw Taj Mahal and George Clinton live. I made a stained glass piece. I picked tomatoes from the vine and made sauce. I hosted more than one dinner party. I went to Napa Valley for the first time, and to Mexico City for the 5th. I tagged along on a work trip with Gem, to Costa Rica. I went back to San Cris, where my heart still lives. I watched the leaves turn yellow, and red, and orange. I got an espresso machine. I drank a lot of lattes. I quit coffee. I cried a lot. I got comfortable.

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Now, it snows. (Everyone swore that it never snows in Portland, but here we are (again).) I read an article in Deem about place versus space. The interviewer asks Theaster Gates to muse on the difference between the two concepts:

“Place. It’s the ability to locate oneself where one belongs. Place is the manifestation of care. With location alone, you’ve got space. With location and familiarity, intention and love, you’ve got place.”

The interviewer then asks: how do you convert a space to a place?

How do you convert a space to a place? How do you convert a space to a place?

You make your wife oatmeal every morning and chase your dog down the same block for the 3rd time in a week. You go to a friend’s house for tea after work. You strike up a conversation with strangers at a restaurant that you frequent. You buy a cookbook for the neighbor, because you think they’d like it. You cry under a big tree, because it makes you feel small. You dig your heels in. You buy an espresso machine, then you give up coffee.

Until next time,

Andy