Portland

I picked up a picnic checked cloth dress with halved fruits & bees & a pair of cork & silver platforms to satisfy an image I had in my head about what would feel good to dance to blues in, somewhere down the timeline to Portland. A banana and almond butter toasted sandwich, an apple with bacon cheddar cheese slices and an immense vanilla latte squeezed alongside another Atwood novel, an extra pair of shoes and all the cords of modern day America. The Bolt was severely late in the severe heat, we - baking beneath the clutch and pulls and exhaust sighs of numerous buses before it. A Mother with pregnant swell smoking cigarettes, not responding to screams of, "That's my child in there." Every hungry about-to-be traveler walking through the burger king drive thru. I was starting to lose my directional sense, a sense of pride I developed when I learned you could make an L with your left hand, like, did I make a mistake? Breaking sweat, breaking out in all that heat smog. Finally, the bus savior, and, "I've broken down three times, the mechanic is on speed dial," and on to Seattle. And on to Portland where it spit us out with a sigh on a dark no-coat night.

Red & I walked to the Waterfront Blues Festival. I, having lost not only directional sense, but detail sense and common sense, figured we were going to a hole in the wall to watch Galactic groove with an intimacy I assumed I deserved. And then we walked into the Bonnaroo of Portland; the moon like a gigantic macaroon between Portland bridges, Macy Gray, who I hadn't thought of since '99 with "I Try," singing in layers of gravel-voice and neck fabrics, dancing, families, fried foods. I got to catch the last of the show before we headed over to the Marriot Grand Ballroom for the after hours allstars after party with Galactic. The mix of people was incredible - diamond necklaces on freckle-aged skin, hawaiian shirts, levi cut offs hiked up high with the curve of underbutt on a body burned with strap lines, dreads, bank owners, servers, cocktails, pot wafts, sit down, stand up, dancing. Note to self - bring a roadie on the Bolt. I was too sober to be around the glass-eyed, burned flesh of blues. We jived, double-fisting, before a long downtown walk to cool ourselves, and headed home to the Star-gazer's, where we had a tent set up in the backyard by the kiddie pool, among the bark and spider webs.

By 8 it was sweltering, and shirtless, and the pavement screamed in black heat from heels up. Red & I ran along the long line to the amusement park in Sellwood. A park so robust in economy that parking spaces were spray painted on the grass. I got 10 miles in along the water and though the pube had a bad day, getting to run new ground was good.

Sometimes after a few days of not brushing my hair, Red will sit me down at his feet and brush it for me; an act that says, "You're dirty and I want to help you," without being rude. I think this is an amazing skill to possess. The ability to not make someone feel bad, but to make them feel good, genuinely, about a thing they could feel sorry for. Anecdote aside, he spent some time wetting the head and combing the sticky tangles of Willa, a child full of expression:

The family left for a family thing, and Red & I were met with the owner of a cellar haunt with a couple hundred dollar bottle of Jacques Selosse Brut, which poured the color of peach fuzz and tasted remarkable over talk of the Caribbean and Belize and diving and restaurants, on blankets in the shade of the backyard.

After, we took our bikes on a tour de Portland, to the farmers market, through water fountains, food carts, Voodoo Donuts, through parks and trees, perching at a burger joint which offered a $15 beer, shot and burger deal. Red got a peanut butter fried pickle burger and I got a philly steak, bacon and roasted chile burger. We threw back our jack, got fountain wet and biked back to Sellwood for a siesta.

Feet in the kiddy pool couldn't calm my electric buzz. Altogether again, after all of our naps in the corners of the darkest spaces, we opened a special bottle of bubbles Red had been saving, Jacques Copinet, which we sipped through flutes with halibut tacos, the sky settling on the front picnic table of the Star-gazin's home. Packing sparklers and pop-its, a baby on back eating a juice popsicle, dripping down her mother's back, a toddler by the hand, and sidestepping crossxstreet displays. Hundreds if not a thousand people stood on the lip of a strip of road at the top of a park, where we all watched the display coming up off the water. All the bodies felt like a community. Backyards of homes held their own displays accompanied by music, and everyone would gather like moths to light from one yard to the next. I fell asleep with an open tent roof beneath the stars as two men reminisced boyhood, running into the night with hand crackers, giggling.