Sunday, 28 June 2009

Towtrucks (day five and six)

"We're not going to need the towtruck any more..."
Officer Ozawa

The car was seconds from being towed, and our sunbathing Couch Park vibe was totally killed. The cops are so unthinking. $40 our penalty for being stoopid.

Portland has no real attractions. There are no standouts. Character is not created by architecture old, or new, or outlandish. Still, an atmosphere exists. If Seattle was Coventry (errrrr...) then Portland is Nottingham. Edges of deprivation, but an essential arty/hipster/creative scene. You are no one if you don't have a tattoo and a dog. Or a dog tattoo. Or a tattooed dog. Vegetarian food is widely available. Coffee shops proliferate the corners of the leafy suburbs.

Hey! scenesters

The hostel is devoid of life. Everyone is locked away and the dorm lies like public school in the summer months. My downy leg spread their cutaneous fat over the crumpled maroon sheets. This house is a ghost house that no one is haunting. Terrordream arpeggios bay at my ears.

The kitchen is frequented by the traveller. He sold his worldly goods to travel the world. He sold his worldly goods so he could perpetually bore people with his stories. The stories that every traveller has. "Angkor Wat is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Your insight is unique. I am enlightened. Can I see your snapshots?

Old man's complaints demand roadside star jumps.
Roadside star jumps demand outsider attention.
Outsider attention demands I touch my toes.
I touch my toes.
The road enters my cavity.
I am sore.

In the market a dog poses for dollar bills, its owner watching a few feet back, stern arms folded, drill sergeant legs & doughy steelback. Society's casualties wander the maelstrum , cribbing for coins, pity eyes sunken and staring.

So many poses...

The grass of central Oregon is a brown swathe of whisper dry flint strike spark burn burn burn infernus so close so close just wait. The Portland hipsters with their dogs and tattoos fade out into the haze of campgrounds and grocery stores. Their skinny jeans are illsuited to tented cities besieged by RVs and winnebagos, bear proof lockers a conscience salve. Espadrilles (sic) (sick) fill with sand and the pale slack skin reddens.

The towman returns to his wife and children, and sighs at the world. America carries on its cyclical travails. We continue journeying south.

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