Today was the dangling tale of paths side by side, crossing mossy tangles of storytold stairways up steep troublesteps and starry-eyed teary-eyed sobbing and walking, crumbled cement stumbling, pounding feet on pavement and drowning in tears, emerging in a dead end treasure trove, pear trees and elusive cats, no solution, no way out but through the next archway of bending branches and stubborn footsteps to an open door.
There really was a perfect pear tree bending over the street. I reached up, plucked a pear off, and bit it, and it was the most wonderful pear I�ve ever tasted. Donna was trying to woo a reluctant cat, crouching on the sidewalk making kissy noises, the cat looking a little seduced but a little scared.
At the clothing store, we tried on beautiful dresses we couldn't afford. I had a strapless dress with big red roses all over it. I wanted to go to a garden party. We are living beyond our means. I put the dress on hold. Do you think i can come up with $43 tomorrow? My sorrow is infinite...
We walked everywhere, up and down Hawthorne, up and down Belmont, up and down Stark, wandering... searching for the perfect bar in which to have that drink that might cure her. Looking at all the Mercedes and other pretty cars. I took pictures of the sun through the trees, through the dusty glass and metal of old broken cars, pictures of Donna reaching for a cat just as the cat turns its head toward me. Sun glinting off glass and pavement and trees.
There were an EXTRAORDINARY number of cats out today. It was seriously a fantastic day for cats. Sitting on porches, stretching, appearing from behind flowers, running across a street to greet us. We have to stop for every cat and one of us says, "Look at that cat!" and we sigh longingly.
We found a bar on Stark that was suitable; I can't remember the name. It was all red inside with beautiful paintings. I managed to drink one cocktail (a cape cod). I drank half of it while holding my nose. I really can't stand alcohol anymore. It�s so bizarre. I wrote in my new "planning book" and Donna wrote in her journal, and then she hugged me a lot and said nice things to me. We�re really happy most of the time. It�s wonderful...
Our journey started at 3 and we got home around 10. Most of that time was spent walking, petting cats, or looking at interesting houses or fairy tale mystery scenes. We saw a horse swing made out of tires, many hammocks hanging from roofs, a blue glass face on a porch, little eccentric garden ornaments, a little girl pushing a stroller across a parking lot. Right as we were getting close to home the fireworks started, over the river; we could see them because the land on this side of the river slopes up. Why fireworks tonight? Why? Mysteries abound.
We want to make maps. Maps of healing. Maps of Portland. Maps of our worlds. Where worlds intersect. There are so many dimensions and intersections and interweavings. It�s love. It�s unfolding. My breath. My memory. The forgotten sorrow.
Sam likes the creek because it's full of living things. Donna likes the creek because she likes water, but more like the glassy water of the ocean, blank and expansive. I like creeks because they wind off into the distance through the trees, into the uncharted, and there is most likely some little hut nestled between rocks next to the falling water, where the post-apocalyptic blacksmith's daughter is preparing for the next dance.