the old man and the mountain
have you seen the documentary about the mount st. helens eruption in 1980? They interviewed an old man who'd lived at the base of the mountain his whole life, and refused to evacuate the area when it was clear there'd be an eruption. A stubborn old coot, whom nobody could move off the mountain because he loved it so much he preferred to stay and die with it than escape with his life. I don't see anything wrong with it, either. Was it suicide, or the best death he could have dreamed up for himself? Die in a tidal wave of liquid hot magma at the prime of your old age, or wither away in a nursing home as your dignities are removed as methodically as the straightening of crisp new sheets every day. Cohones Man chose the volcano, duh.
I'm feeling stubborn like that guy, a little bit, these days. Clinging to my territory as it quicksands out from under me. I love St. Johns. Only been here a year now but it counts as part of the pacific northwest in which my whole life has played out. Only our sweet little cottage got swept out from under us, never belonged to us. Just on loan so our daughter could be born in a magical place and then off we go, move along. I wonder if our landlord, John, will ever find out she was born in what is to become his bedroom. We aren't going to tell him. The cottage may belong to him, but that night belongs to us. Our neighbor Amy just gave me some more pictures to prove it.
reliving the past, oy. I didn't put clothes on or shower for at least a week after that. Took that long to change out of animal mode. I might have barked at the in-laws, and my mother saw more of my boobies than she ever wanted to.
One year in St Johns is not long enough.
One year in Los Angeles is long enough, I pray.
We'll return straight here, barring any volcanic eruptions.
This is Portland's best kept secret, the Saint John's Bridge. Named for Saint John, an early settler, so called because he refused to frequent the local brothel.
The most beautiful bridge in the world.
I'm feeling stubborn like that guy, a little bit, these days. Clinging to my territory as it quicksands out from under me. I love St. Johns. Only been here a year now but it counts as part of the pacific northwest in which my whole life has played out. Only our sweet little cottage got swept out from under us, never belonged to us. Just on loan so our daughter could be born in a magical place and then off we go, move along. I wonder if our landlord, John, will ever find out she was born in what is to become his bedroom. We aren't going to tell him. The cottage may belong to him, but that night belongs to us. Our neighbor Amy just gave me some more pictures to prove it.
reliving the past, oy. I didn't put clothes on or shower for at least a week after that. Took that long to change out of animal mode. I might have barked at the in-laws, and my mother saw more of my boobies than she ever wanted to.
One year in St Johns is not long enough.
One year in Los Angeles is long enough, I pray.
We'll return straight here, barring any volcanic eruptions.
This is Portland's best kept secret, the Saint John's Bridge. Named for Saint John, an early settler, so called because he refused to frequent the local brothel.
The most beautiful bridge in the world.