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Kate, Amanda and CS

Kate, Amanda and CS

WWhen I met Amanda in New York, years ago, she told me her name was Leslie –but many lasting friendships begin with one good lie. I cannot now imagine life without her, my crazy blonde jewess of the midnight movie run, rain-soaked and giggling, with popcorn butter on her chin. Oh, wait –that’s me. Amanda is the friend who dances well, dresses fashionably, and gets more than her share of the Male Gaze when we‘re out on the town (it’s true!) –but more importantly, she’s the friend who listens to my man-troubles, job-troubles, and troubles with, well, everything. Then she smiles and says, “let’s get bubble tea!”

Here’s how the story ends:

“So it came to pass, in a sleepy Colorado suburb, that The Lady, the Priest and the Assassin went looking for trouble fun. The Priest and the Assassin, though opposed to each others’ methods, turned out to be ideological bedfellows, so to speak, and they shared many expensive hygiene products too. They’d been traveling the Wild West together for nearly a month, seeing many sights, tasting many foods. Whenever the Assassin got an urge to kill someone, the Priest would say to her, “Hey now, you can’t really go through life killing folks! Think of the lowly squirrel, and you will see the error of your ways.” This stopped the Assassin cold; you can’t win squirrel arguments. Likewise, when the Priest got an urge to kill herself, the Assassin would say to her, “Hey now, if you kill yourself, who will talk me out of killing others?” and this was enough to prevent the Priest from committing suicide. Days passed in this lovely way, until one afternoon a fateful thing happened: The Lady rolled into town.

Now, The Lady’s coming was both foreseen and welcome, but it spelled one thing for our heroes: fun trouble. They saw many things together in cowpoke Colorado, drove around, ate food. There was a baby sleeping on a couch. They lusted after Javier Bardem on the big screen, each in her own fashion. This was before the time of chocolate overload, when all things (even the lisping actor) were forgotten, followed by a visit to the world of Men and Floozies (see: Michael Garman’s Magic Town). And then, as it does, the inevitable happened.

The Priest fell in love with the Lady, but was very conflicted by it, as The Lady was most surely a sinner. The Assassin, on the other hand, had developed a yen for the Priest, and so you have it: the classic Love Triangle. There was a great to-do, a certain incident involving pancake batter, and all relations between the three heroes soured to the flavor of moldy pickles in a jar. In the end, the Assassin discovered the lovers conducting one of their private “prayer sessions”, drew her sword, and in a single motion murdered The Lady, sepukku-style. The Priest’s eyes flew toward heaven and she said, “Thank God she was Jewish. They don’t go to Hell.”

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plant near Dufur, OR

plant near Dufur, OR

II am back home in Brooklyn, land of glowing brownstones and a certain Tree that Grows, piecing together in my head the final bits of our trip: the last gasp before real life …my real life which involves, apparently, sitting at a computer for untold hours each day.

But my desk is lovely –I want to tell you about my desk. It’s a large, L-shaped lucite thing, made by a designer couple in Chelsea. They were moving to Chicago to be among the comix people –and who could blame them? I’ve strung holiday rope lights (classy!) underneath the inch-thick lucite causing a surreal little “glow from below”. Like the red candle in a Lutheran church, these lights are always on; they signify the presence of God. You know –”May the Lord bless you and keep you, May he make his face to shine upon you, and give you peace.” Such pretty words. Surely the most practical agnostic can see how pretty. I sit at this desk with my legs bent under me, typing or reading or (most usually) editing photos. Often a whole day will pass before I realise I haven’t eaten or left the house.

Today, there is a cool breeze coming in through the window. Someone nearby is playing a saxophone, and the sound trickles into my ear like so much teasing. I don’t WANT to sit here anymore. I don’t WANT to work on these pictures!

The human body wasn’t designed for a sedentary lifestyle. Save me, oh Lord, from my aubergine Steelcase chair!

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It isn't at all like this where I'm from

It isn’t at all like this where I’m from

rhapsody

driving

justneedtogetthisoutofmysystem

animprecision

thinking of Lifshin

cloud22.jpg

oppression

sea of clouds

covenant

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early morning tea, Mount St. Helens

early morning tea, Mount St. Helens

birds taking flight

broccoli on a stick

it's delicious!

open space very high up

Kate hates styrofoam.

curried peas. Thanks JME!

Morgan Lake

Oregon clear

angel eyes

Is IT in you?

don't mess widdus

laughter and forgetting

Moab checkout girl

American Idyll

hovering in a friendly way

Mount St. Helens

early morning tea

lunch-time

red rocks of UT

fashion is muy importante!

ah, that's better.

Utah take me home

on the road of life....

silly dance

Sinclair4

lazy telluride day

tell-u-ride

man about town

happy telluride dogs

tired, as in DEAD

wheels

from Rome to the midwest

headache called "today"

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Morgan Lake, OR

Morgan Lake, Oregon

B By the time we reached La Grande, the sun had started to settle his hips down into the mountain tops. So many of our days were like this: waking in the dew-covered tent, breaking camp with a flurry, then the long, pretty drive against dusk. We hoped to find a camp spot and make dinner before dark.

“What town is this?” asked Kate, a bit nervous about the setting sun.
“La Graaaand?” I replied. “La Gran-day?” I googled for a campsite, park, or pond nearby. Google returned a place called Silver Lake Campground, with a specific address. We drove up road X for 1.2 miles, took a turn on road Y for .02 miles, then a HARD LEFT at the traffic circle, followed by a slight right, then a slam! on the break for .0001 miles, followed by some cursing. We were at the exact address Google delivered us to, and it was…a fire station.

“Quick! Let’s ask those guys for directions!” I pointed at two strapping lads headed for their car. Kate hesitated a little. They looked like Lumberjack Oregon Firefighter Loggermen! When we asked them about Silver Lake, Franklin (light green eyes) and Joe (quiet, background-type) said they’d never heard of such a place. But they’d gladly see us to a city-owned campsite not far off, at Morgan Lake. We followed their old Volvo (Kate loved their car) through town and country, parting ways at a gravel road that would lead us to the campsite. I invited them to join us for dinner, in a few hours, if they didn’t mind camp food. They accepted.

Kate couldn’t believe it. “We have no food!” she insisted. “And we don’t have any time–the sun’s going down!” She was right. She dropped me off by the lake and headed back into town to shop for groceries. I pitched the tent. My cell was dead, there were swarms of mosquitos following me everywhere I walked, and I could swear I heard a band of coyotes in the distance, making me shiver. When finally the Chevy pulled up, gratitude flooded my brain. An hour later, dinner was ready: rice, beans, homemade guacamole(!), chips, homemade salsa(!!), bread, olives, and roasted vegetables. And beer. Kate had out-done herself.

The guys arrived at ten to find us huddling over a paltry fire made of twigs and branches. It was all I had been able to find. They left and returned with their arms full of firewood. Ah, men.

The evening went off splendidly: everyone had enough to eat, Franklin and Joe proved to be engaging dinner guests, and we soon succumbed to the “dazed and sleepy” look of people who had eaten too much. When at a very late hour the guys left, I sat poking at the embers for a bit, thinking about the need people have for other people. A coyote howled in the distance, but I didn’t shiver. It was an honest, beautiful sound.

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Oregon or the Grave!

Oregon or the Grave!

FFeet up, windows down, the sky above us stretched out in blues and pinks –is it possible to see into the future? It seems possible with a sky like that. Due east, Devendra Banhart! Take me there with your trilling voice, my Lord.

The Columbia river starts in British Columbia and rushes southward to the Pacific, delineating Washington from Oregon along the way. For eighty miles between The Dalles and Boardman, OR, it runs along I-84, a smooth stretch of road that rocked me gently to sleep. This interstate is also known as the Old Oregon Trail Highway 6, and on it we moved directly against the flow of history as we headed east. I imagined passing by remnants of The Peoria Party, with their flag proclaiming “Oregon or the Grave!”, followed by weary Elm Grove families in covered wagons. In 1848, someone found gold in California. Hundreds of thousands joined the westward migration, borne along by the mighty Columbia.

In the 1840’s there flourished an energetic certainty that the US was destined –even preordained –to expand across the continent. This concept of “Manifest Destiny” was used to advocate for or justify our acquisition of new territories. In the famous 1872 painting by John Gast, a goddess-like Columbia, representing America, leads settlers westward; she is stringing telegraph wire and carrying school books. A closer look reveals that the bison and Native Americans flee before her seemingly angelic visage.

In today’s world, the idea of a God-granted duty to change or displace other people seems childish; in my world it’s an outright farce. But I do confess an attraction to the idea of Destiny. I suppose this makes me religious in the sense that “destiny” implies a natural order to the universe. So much of our religious feeling, it seems, comes from the dueling emotions of fear (of chaos) and yearning (for order). Old religions always have a method of divination, don’t they, a way for us to peer into the order of things: bones thrown, arrows tossed, tea leaves spread onto a wooden tray. Out of this random chaos comes order, or at least that’s what the numerologist says before taking your money.

I often wonder what my destiny is. Is it a “sealed fate”, or do I get to participate? Is there a cover charge at the door? I don’t want so much, really. To eat just enough, to hear quiet music nearby, to have good friends and see them healthy and loved by others…

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