Writing Exercise: Sitting Waiting

I sat there all day today, wondering, hoping that you would come, and now you are here.

This morning started early. I am always up before the sunrise sitting with others. Today I sat and watched people drink their coffee, do their crosswords and smoke their cigarettes. Some even get bagels, toasted with butter or cream cheese. Im not much of a bagel eater myself, but I often wonder if some of these people subsist entirely on coffee and bagels.

Around nine am, two old men passed by. They seemed to be having an argument of sorts. The taller one pointed down the street with his dirty finger, slurring his speech, Thats Burnside Street, Randy. We need to go this way.

Not saying attention, Randy stopped to talk to some guy enjoying his morning coffee. You know Charles? Hes the one, yeah, ya know Charlie. Charlie knows you.

Frustrated the guy looked down at his book, Noam Chomsky, if I recall. Then the dirty finger was pointing at Burnside Street again. Randy, thats Burnside, follow me. Its this way.

Randy started walking away, dragging h feet. For years Randy has probably dragged his feet. On the pavement, asphalt, grass, and gravel his shoes have been worn down. During the hot summers and wet winters, his shoes have weathered to threads barely resembling shoes. Its hard to imagine what mess is hidden under those shoes, but it couldnt be worse then the yellow paste around his lips.

He stopped and turned back to the Chomsky patron, slurring out of the yellow crust something vaguely resembling a half-grunt half-groan. Then e followed his friend. He looked over toward e at his reflection in the window, and spit out, Yeah, Charlie knows him.

Then they were off. The guy sipped his coffee and set down his Chomsky book and looked my way, not at me, but at the girl just behind me. She sat there with her headphones in her ears. I couldnt fully make out what she was listening to because the sound was drowned out by the non-rhythmic drone of passing cars. Chomsky boy realized that she wasnt going to look his way, so he turned his head forward and sighed as he sat there, spinning the book on the table.

Five minutes later, Randy and his lanky friend returned. No Randy, thats Burnside Street. Im sure its this way.

The girl pulled on the white chords running up to her ears, and asked the two old men what they were looking for. Chomsky boy looked up, too, after hearing the girls voice. The old men stopped a moment.

The liquor store, said the first. Randy swayed on his feet looking down at me.

Which one? she asked.

Randy started walking away. His boney friend looked at the girl, pausing long enough to make her feel awkward. Fifth and Washington, he slurred out.

Chomsky boy chimed in, That way a few blocks, raising his right arm, coffee still in hand. He looked from the girl to the bum, back to the girl again. She nodded in agreement and put her earphones in again, never returning the smile he gave her.

Randy, wait up. Im sorry, he hollered to his friend. I got all turned around; I thought we were on the other side of Burnside. Im sorry Randy.

Randy kept on dragging his feet across the wet pavement. The older bum caught up to his friend as they walked toward Fifth and Washington. I sat there, watching Chomsky boy watch the girl watching the bums. You still hadnt arrived.

Around eleven am, someone came and sat next to me. He wasnt much for words. In fact, he didnt say anything at all. He set the newspaper on the table and reached into his coat pocket. Pulling out a fresh pack of cigarettes, he packed them on the table. Not really paying attention to his actions, I listened to the cup rattle on its saucer as the latte splashed out onto the newspaper.

As he lit up his first cigarette, he pulled the paper off the table. Opening it up, the spilt latte dripped onto his suit pants. Dammit, he mumbled to himself, quickly brushing the drink off his pant legs.

He read through the business section first. Cigarette and cigarette, he thumbed through the paper backward. I wonder whats on the back page of the business section, probably stocks data. Twenty minutes passed. He put down his paper and mashed out his fifth cigarette. Not looking, he grabbed his latte cup and took a drink. Finding nothing quenching his thirst, he looked into the empty cup. It was kind of funny; he did that two other times while he was reading the newspaper. It took him five minutes to finish his latte, and fifteen minutes and three cigarettes to realize that he had no more left.

Oh the minutes, I have sat here for countless minutes, several hours, nearly half a day waiting for you to come. Usually you come just before ten am. If you are not in a hurry, you will actually come and sit with me. The days you dont sit with me, I convince myself that you are off doing important things or having fun. I imagine that you are on an international diplomacy trip flying from New York to France to India to London and back. I imagine that you are showing off a new design to current clients, convincing them that its a new trend. Or I assume that you are taking a road trip with friends, stopping along the way to go white water rafting, or to see the worlds largest ball of twine. I picture you convincing your friends that your Aunt Judys cat once had a ball of twine that was bigger until he chewed it all up making a mess of the basement. But its now just past noon, and you havent shown up. I hardly ever see you on the days when you dont come before ten. Ill sit and wait, nonetheless. I mean, what else is there for me to do.

I sat through the lunch hour, albeit a busy lunch hour. Next to me sat four college students talking about the party they went to last night. Almost all seats were being used by todays lunch goers. The barista walked out balancing four lunch plates on her hands and forearms.

Dave, she said trying to draw Daves attention.

Dave. After the third time she called out Daves name, one of the four college kids waved his arm at her. She came over and started setting the hot plates down on the table. The guys looked at the food, at each other, and then at the barista.

This isnt our food.

Are any of you Dave?

No.

Putting on her phony apologetic smile, she placed the burning hot plates back on her hands and forearms and walked around calling out Daves name.

I am a random topic listener.

What were the role of women in music and its inspirations of the crusades?

Your melodious music is better than In Living Color circa 1998.

I sit there listening to the random babbling of coffee shop junkies. Someone came and sat next to me late in the afternoon. She had the nerve to rest her feet on me, but I let her because she was cute, and I just couldnt say anything.

How did the harpsichord affect the evolution of Celtic Music?

Have you read this? Insert any book that makes you sound pretentious.

God, that girl is so damn cute, little dreads, polka dots. I just want to kiss her.

Does the rich caffeine coursing through the veins cause people to talk more?

Evil American, you mean Native American, like the Mayans and the Aztecs, as well as whatever music the puritans could bring themselves to make?

I listen to their chatter and wonder if the even know what they are talking about.

The sun was setting behind the clouds. Rich colors scattered down to me. I sit here everyday and watch the sun rise and watch the sun set. I have seen all levels of beauty from extravagant perfection to dreary normalcy. None of the best sunsets in the world compare to the times we sit together.

Its getting late, and you still have not arrived. The baristas did a shift change. With the setting of the sun and the shift change also comes a change in the people who sit with me. The bicycle messengers are replaced by high-schoolers substituting bars for cafes. The businessmen are replaced by people waking up for their graveyard shifts.

The evening drags on into night. Conversations die down as people focus on their books and laptops. Engrossed in a world of their own, no one seems to be awaiting the arrival of anyone, and yet I sit idle, ever waiting. It is now getting past midnight and people are leaving, some to work, and some to home.

It appears that another day will have passed without you coming. There is always tomorrow. I will wait for you tomorrow. Im always waiting for you, but if others knew you like I did, they would wait too. I have sat with you and countless friends of yours, listening to the stories of your life unfold. Each friend hears a separate piece, but I am present for the pieces. I have pieced together the intricate jigsaw that is your life and seen a beauty incomparable to the most well construed play, the most melodious opera, or the most divine specimen of nature. I sat with you in supreme silence and extreme excitement, through your laughter and tears. Today, alas, I do not get another piece of the puzzle.

Wait!

Is that your voice I hear? Could it be that I will get a chance to sit with you again.

It is you!!

I watch you walk into the coffee shop to get a drink. Excited, I sit waiting for you to come out and sit with me.

The days you arrive this late are the days I listen to the most elaborate stories, the stories that make me love you the most. I hear the familiar chime of the bells mounted on the door. The barista follows you out. You go to sit with me, but you notice the barista is stacking the chairs. The café is closing and he needs to bring in the tables and chairs. You realize this, and sadly walk on toward home. Im going to miss my opportunity to sit with you today. I waited all day, and now I dont get to sit with you.

You walk past me. I try to tell you that Ill be out in the morning, when they open, but I can not speak. The barista grabs me and stacks me with the other chairs.

Ill be back tomorrow. Will you?

PCT 2005 - Independence Day

July 4th Evening
Elevation: 5500 ft
Trail Miles: 887 miles

Happy Independence Day! How did you celebrate it? Did you have a barbecue, drink some fine american beer, and light stuff on fire?

I celebrated in the woods, by feeling completely independent. I woke, I walked, and I write about the day where I did not see a single person. I heard voices for a short bit, and I saw an airplane, but I did not see anyone or speak to anyone. Independently lonely in the woods.

Sure the mosquitos kept me company, but there not much for conversation. They just whine in your ear all day, and occassionally bite you to demand your attention. Oh there were the tadpoles in the pond I took lunch at, but they mostly just wagged their tales and went about their business.

Then there were the frogs on the trail, tiny little ones searching for a pond to hangout in, but they just hopped away when they saw me coming. Alot like the two fawn deer and their mother I saw frolicking through the woods, unaware of my presence, or so it seemed.

I guess the most interaction I had with anything was the small butterfly who came and sat on my socks while I ate lunch. I dont know why it would want to sit on my socks, hell I dont even like putting them on. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my lunch while she slowly flapped her golden wings.



Todays hike was rather viewless, though I did walk past a good number of ponds and lakes. How does one distinguish between the two, Ill never know. My guess is that a pond is a big mudpuddle, stagnant and green-brown. A lake is generally larger, stream fed, and quite often blue and clear. Then again, I have seen alot of lakes that are brown and unclear, but those generally have people driving boats in them and larger rivers filling them.



I walked past one particular pond that had lillies in it, those big leaves that hang out on the waters surface waiting to have a frog rest on them. It wasnt too pretty, but it sparked my childhood memories of Alaska. I believe that the preschool that I, or my brother, went to, had a lily pond near it completely covered in lillies. I would walk around it amazed at these simple plants providing a pad for the frogs. I am sure that is not their purpose, but I imagine frogs love kicking on the pad, soaking in some sun in the midst of their afternoon dip.

I also had a short hike through a burned area. I dont know how long ago the fire was, but it was interesting to see all the trees dead with their bark and limbs missing. The sun had bleached what remained of the trunk, and all that was left was thousands of these white branchless trees, like oversized toothpicks poking into the ground. Some had fallen over the winter, making my traverse a little more difficult, and me more thankful of the people who do upkeep the trail.



I planned to stop at a campground at Island Lake, but I missed the campground. So I looked over the guidebook and saw that Dumbbell Lake was just .7 miles further. I hiked on, and was glad I did. It is, by far, a much nicer lake to camp at.

Tomorrow I hike 7 miles into Elk Lake for a resupply

Writing Exercise: Portland Memory

I was riding the max yesterday.

I ride it every day.

To work,

From work,

and other random occassions.



Others were riding too, naturallly. Amid the crowd of people was one guy with a guitar. He was with a friend. He played and the two of them sang.

What made it great? They were good...but that's not what mad it great. Usually peole pay minor attention , at best, to young street kids playing music. Not this time. People saw talent, so they made requests, and the guitarist could play alot of them. To top it all off, people sang with the two of them. Before long, six of seven people sang with them.

I looked around and saw contented contented faces all around. Readers put their books in their laps and people lightly tapped their feet on the ground. Others drummed their thumbs on the handles they clasped.

At stops people left smiling and new transitors stepped on, very quickly getting wrapped up in the event unfolding.

Some Beatles, Some Hendrix, Some Presley, some original, and a whole lot of happy people.

I wanted to continue riding until they stopped. I wanted to absorb that feeling and save it. I wanted to continue seing sullen fces slide into smiling persons.

Alas, I could not. I stepped off the max, where I was transported to the larger collection of people who missed out on a moment that will be defined as one of my favorite portland moments.

This is something that I am coming to realize. On a regular basis we are afforded the opportunity to experience something that only a select few get the pleasure to experience. Sometimes it is a moment for one person, sometimes twenty or one hundred. But its when we approach life with open eyes that we begin see that every day has moments. And its in those moments that time slows down and a subtle peace is found.