Lost more time. It goes whoosh into paper cups. 12 of them for 40 cents a piece. Time left us with a small rack beer pong official length tournament table. Markings all cross hatched it like a multi use carpeted gym in an elementary school. Is it a basketball court today because of the always present grey-blue rain forest cloud cover? Can we use velcro tape to box off “jail” sections for capture the flag? How do we help them through our own horrors of adolescence? The Puget Sound all swathed in the same grey as the clouds and reflecting each other like a foggy mirror in the reflection of a foggy mirror with whales swimming orca-fin-out within.
Weekend goes away like barnacled humpbacks. Disappear into the unstructured depths of dark ales and submersible thoughts of sober intent all warped communication with the surface, some rational part of scientific mind in me was registering a blip on a radar, a blip of warning, a little red dot in a rippling pool of light laser beam green expanding circles, with the counterclockwise motion of the directional propeller, the compass of my desire, buried in the evergreen tap draft, drunk off the cerulean pure water of the local rivers, the confluence, the islands, the names of old, an unexpected sandy beach, an unexpected amount of skin revealed in the hot sun. Hear the groans of tension as we sink to crush depth. Then the implosion in the dark. A can of orange soda run over by a bus.
The confluence of Willamette and the Columbia. Through a cherry-blossom lined industrial park, seemingly abandoned for other venture capitalism on cheap plots of land elsewhere. All businesses out of order. For sale signs dusty and desperate in the windows and no smells of food cooking. Out on the beach and over cathedral park, the st. john’s bridge in its lonely majesty. One of countless bridges over the Willamette yet I know of so little bridges dangling precarious in the winds over the Columbia aside from the I-5 highway bridge out of Vancouver (Oregon Welcomes You) (Washington Says Return Soon!) and the half afloat 4 mile long crazy Astoria bridge over the Columbia delta breeding into the Pacific Ocean with clambeds all asleep and cozied up and yachts and cargo ships puttering about in the huge bay sized river outlet, currents doing nothing against the advent of anchors, the belief in anchors, the water traveling through sunlight to get into the ocean, all sparkled with the lemonworld caustic comments of ambivalent gods in lecture over wine over glasses overfilled, the hall full of disembodied philosophical pretenses and the sour grapes getting into the lake sediment… the Imperial Red Ale pronounced “Nathan” had me set for a moment out in that brick laded river sweet smelling magnolia strip kind of lovely avenue.
I realized my life is nearing enormous tectonic shifts. I will be forced up against finding a new home. Skipping rocks over my schedule gaps and letting Josh take the wheel for a week while I take passenger seat in Brian’s 1970’s Cessna across the great American continent into a landing strip somewhere in Florida for a day or so spring break 2015 and the wildlife that is implied in this adventure, the inability to pass it up, the selling of clothes to make it happen, the cities to plan on landing in, the studying up of electronic touring artists, the dance lessons, the piano at a young age, the breast stroke, the angel fly, the high dive, the boogie board and the sandy surf, the ocean tasted like blue raspberry mint kombucha – out there on the beach. Wondering what life would be like fully suspended in the air. The hawks over the I-5 corridor. The bald eagles. The horrible eyelid-weighted exhaustion. The tension and release of an ankle popping over accelerator and brake pedal. The landlord who walks over the beheaded remains of a poor bird left to rot on the front lawn.