Portland Evening, February 2012

IMG_3872Waiting for the drugs to take effect

The type of music you hear in these places. Living in a hip city there are seventeen of these places within a ten-block radius. A female crooner, scratch-edged voice, drum-n-bass beat behind a soulful sad tune turning quickly to a lusty howl. A dark room candlelit with voices flickering in pretty pairs and parts of conversations floating across the air to my ears: from your mouth to god’s ears, in a grandmotherly tone, and I tune in to hear if the echo of heartache from a time before this time becomes a tune trilled over tongues in this place, new and now and older than the old man next to me whose graybeard whiskeyplea places me solidly in the heart of a middle age of youth and indecision. I decide: I am at the beginning of this thing! I can beat it, bleat it, blow it, glow with it, it’s coming, it’s coming on, and I’m not too old to hear it, to feel it, to free it from it’s imprisonment in the dream state from which it came, cold and crying, a small hairy bloody unborn thing, begging to be in this world of  fearful being.

All of which means: the drug has taken hold. I’ve been pulled into it. I’ve realized it, or it has realized me. The baby has been birthed, the body become, and now, I can be the everyone I want to be. And that’s only the beginning. Once I am the me that I imagine in another world I might be, then there are the usual multiplicities of such beings and they become their own (tired) society of what-might-be, and again (conveniently) I long for the real body, the whole thing, the done deal. So what  does that mean?

Advertisements