Author: buddycushman

Dozens and dozens and dozens of books are scattered through the reading area here in the basement. In piles, all alone, leaning against walls. As patient as me.

For the last number of days – even before the boxes arrived and surely since – I have been scouting the internet for one or two used bookcases to hold these new/old additions to and into my life. No luck so far, most often because I cannot transport and ask for delivery and it just ain’t happening. A few times folks have said if it wasn’t sold by some day down the road they’d deliver, and someone else swooped in.

There’s something amazingly encouraging about all these books, promises of falling through the mirror with Alice, and I’ve noticed my relationship with little libraries I pass on all the walking is different. More about what can I give back. Which is nice, because I’m a believer that little libraries are ongoing signs that hope and generosity are eternal human things. Just like me.

And all my art surprising me all over again. Blank canvas, painted canvas, no canvas, this very canvas. Like this one:

Both my sons called me yesterday. Spenser called when I was out on a long, hot, late-afternoon walk to talk about ‘Goosebumps.’ We talked about ‘Goosebumps.’ Cameron called in between long walks, when I was sitting here in the warehouse formerly known as the basement studio. He called to say that he and my grandson Logan were leaving Montana early this morning making their way towards Los Angeles, via Las Vegas. Cameron has two days of creative film-making just outside LA, and then, he said, they were going up the coast and across state lines and arrive in Portland late afternoon next Monday. It will be the first time I have seen my oldest son in three years. Yeah, goosebumps.

Cameron also said he was thinking of picking me up early from their motel – after spending time together Monday afternoon – and driving out Tuesday to Astoria to spend the day there. To spend the day in Astoria with Cameron and Logan will be beyond words – I’m crazy for Astoria – see my best book, ‘Astoria Strange,’

I’ll just say that unpacking my five-years-away boxes has offered one “oh my head” I totally forgot moments after another. This photo literally buried under books in one of those boxes as evidence. Evidence any day I’m lucky enough to wake to comes to fetch me, again and again. With ‘Goosebumps,’ with goosebumps, and with one of my ever favorites of my long ago Florida boys.

Saturday afternoon, here and there, a heavy feel of magic all about. Shimmering through the afternoon air. After the big payout. Before the arrival of long-ago boxes. Paintings I cannot remember. Storage puzzles, box-cutting joys. Due Sunday.

One more Saturday note. Early Saturday in my Morning Pages – and doesn’t it always fall out from there – a surprise invitation arrived asking me to experience the month of June in an entirely different way. And I said “Yes.” Details hardly matter. If the creek don’t rise and I’m still waking the morning of July 1, nearly all the adventure will have expressed itself right here, day by day.

Sunday morning soundscape – Blue jay screeching as it crosses the street; a xylophone, a guitar, a family laughing out on the sidewalk; the refrigerator working; footsteps and dog paddings above; my heart beating in my left ear; every rock and roll song I’ve ever sung to myself.

The truck arrived from Idaho exactly at 8pm. Kalae and Aaron helped me lug boxes, paintings, bags of clothes, and the heavy wooden table I grew up eating dinners on with my family. I’d certainly forgot about honoring that piece of my history, which I’ve brought from one side of the country and back again over and over. As of this typing it’s leaning against a wall in the landlord’s laundry room. It’s a puzzle to be figured soon.

I remembered, and I’ve been saying, I’d left 25 paintings behind, but leaning on either side of the desk and the 80-year-old wooden sidewalk chest are more than 50. And, deep in one of the boxes I opened last night, a fabulous surprise of a large paper bag filled with my original art greeting cards, including envelopes. More on all that art to follow.

I have an electric feeling about the month of June.

“Somebody once asked Maezumi Roshi, ‘What’s the purpose of Zen?’ He said, ‘To be stupid.’ Are you comfortable being stupid? To be stupid you have to throw away all your ideas about being smart, and your ideas about other people thinking that you’re smart! Being stupid is being simple and sincere with your whole body and mind….” — Shishin Wick Roshi, ‘The Book of Equanimity.’

P.S. — Aimee Mann for President.

I found myself saying, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” later Saturday morning, though not clear who I was saying it to. Head librarian? Sexy RN? Kwan Yin on a front porch? The cost quote to have my brakes fixed? How fast the coffee disappears?

If you are a regular follower of this Blog you will know that I have a thing I say every morning, before meditation, and at times during the day — “All offers.” Whatever shows up, I’m at my best when I look at what’s arrived, maybe puzzle over it, hang out with it, consider it as another best interest in disguise, be perfectly okay if I don’t have a clue. And proceed from there. As John Tarrant Roshi says – “When you take the role of host you know the guests are arriving, and you get to be courteous.” There’s a lot of that.

This morning I’m a little dazed. I’ve been reading a lot, and spending time in the library. There’s an endless list of things Toyota recommends be done on my rather ancient (24) Camry, long and crazy expensive. So that’s a we’ll see. I do love that car.

I realize I’ve been something of a disc jockey here the last couple of months, lots of rock and roll finding its way into this space. The music’s not separate from me, and even if there’s not a video in sight, it’s nearly always there in the words for discerning punkster eyes.

Pal of nutrias. Brothers and sisters, Rhododendron Garden. Hot grandma from The British Isles, orange blouse, faded blue jeans. – “Members of the otters?” Nah, that’s a nutria, your highness —- N-u- t-r-i-a. Back to Woodstock and Country Joe, that kid so recently exiting the planet – “What’s that spell?”

Lately I’ve been sailing through episodes of ‘Grim’ – probably a Portland thing. And wandering these flower-covered streets.

“I’ve been out walking. I don’t do too much talking these days. These days.” — Jackson Browne

Then there was “The White Album” on headphones even later. “Won’t you come out to play?” Back to Kwan Yin; back to the nurse; back to the librarian. – “Come and keep your comrade warm.” And Ritchie Havens at Woodstock – “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.” Which, dig it, it’s not rocket science.

Dream #16 – Right there one night – octopus. A girl. Asks me to dance. Ladies choice. All those arms to hold me. They say a grateful heart will never drink. I say a grateful heart will dance. Dance dance dance.

I have a pencil sharpener. I have two partially-filled boxes of #6B pencils. I have kitchen scissors and a chef’s knife. I’ve been leaning into vegetarianism, though that’s not my plan. I met with my Zen teacher Saturday morning – Zoom – and left thrilled beyond language.

I have most recently purchased freezer bags. And Put Michael Pollan’s “Food Rules: An Eater’s Manual” on library hold. I am what I eat.

Immediately upon entry into the premises – morning walk – I pull on headphones and cue up Bruce Springsteen’s “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” On a Sunday.

I’ve been woozy lately and I’m woozy now. Much time in the hot Portland sun yesterday – Westmoreland Park, the Rhody Garden, Reed College Lake. I thought I had a lead on a cheap storage unit, but I misheard the original conversation.

I’ve also been feeling invisible lately, and in a not little way. Energetic, enthusiastic work conversations go nowhere. People passing on the sidewalk without looking, no your eyes/my eyes shaking hands. Many of the books in boxes in storage in Idaho are my art books, and my heart is calling out for them. My basement studio may soon become a warehouse. I’m picturing that.

I like when The Shangri-las sing, “When I say I’m in love you best believe I’m in love – LUV.” Makes me happy. Sometimes in Trader Joe’s or the Rhody Garden or my Northeast Starbucks I’ll look at a woman and say that to myself, which is helping to keep Portland weird – why I’m so at home here.

I wrote this in my Morning Pages yesterday – “It takes courage just to get out of bed.” I don’t know, that’s my sense. I’m enacting courage when the 3:59 alarm sings out from the phone and I move the covers off and just get up.

My Oregon driver’s license came in the mail yesterday.

Two people sent money for ‘Rosy” yesterday. My heart remains wildly grateful, for that and for everything else, the all of it, even when woozy, even this invisible.

Leaning into spontaneity and even whimsy more than reason, I picked up a copy of my first self-published book, ‘Ring Around the Rosy,’ and read it again the last couple of days. I sobbed here and there throughout – it’s a good story. The cover, an end-of-the-world scene starring a boy with Down syndrome, a girl with cerebral palsy, in her chair, her nerdy assistant, and four young boys was created by a woman in England back in 2017. For $26.

These last few days I’ve been lost in thought and hopefully fairy tale help with the rescue of my boxes and paintings from Idaho. Any plan, and I’m seriously leaning into an especially wild one, costs. A while ago I went digging through a closet and came upon 15 brand new copies of “Rosy,’ never sold, like most of my books. I’m not asking for gifts of money, those seem to come here and there, but I am going to ask here if you, loyal subscriber, would consider a purchase of ‘Rosy’ and her friends. That would be $10 for the book and $5 for the shipping. Selling all 15 would help a lot.

I can say it’s a wonderful story, especially for nowadays, filled with love and loyalty, friendships and welcomings, big, big changes, boundless courage, and a lot of warmed-hearts, grateful tears. I think reading it helps. You could send me a check – Winston Cushman Jr – at 2135A NE 16th Ave Portland, OR 97212, or PayPal to b.cushman@hotmail.com Being seemingly unemployable at this point in my life, there’s plenty of time to get it in the mail to you presto quicko.

It’s just a Thursday thought.