how many roads

It was right around five o’clock in the afternoon yesterday when I realized my mind was blown. Not like blown out, call the cats in white suits and butterfly nets, but into some non-verbally state of stunnedness. I was looking out the kitchen window, my landlady was maybe in her room sleeping after an overnight shift, I hadn’t seen her for more than 24 hours, and I was looking out at real dark clouds in the distance and there was this kind of ‘Bang!!’ sense, I’m living in Portland again. I live here. It wasn’t a thought three months ago, and yet one week ago I was just beginning the big physiological bang of lugging heavy bag after heavy bag and a guitar and bundles of clothes and pretty much my worldly stuff outside of 19 boxes and loose art in a storage in Idaho from around a corner and up a bunch of steps to the porch and front door and through two doors of hanging curtains and then up a whole bunch of wood steps to the attic.

And at 5pm Monday afternoon I’m living in an attic in Portland, Oregon and looking out some lady’s kitchen window and there I was, me and my blown mind.