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.
I love my sons, that’s most important. I love my closest friends, that’s most important. I love the Boston Red Sox, though I’m kind of mad at them now.
Saying I love my Ch’an (Zen) practice is goofy, as anything I write here is already that. But, anyway, I love my practice, it’s most important.
Beyond those, nothing is as important here today than rescuing my 19 boxes of mostly books and 25 loose paintings I long-ago painted from Idaho and bringing them safely here to me – some five years gone. Not eating, not sleeping, not employment, not YouTube, not slow dancing, not peanut butter, not ice cream. Nothing.
My entire attention is on 19 medium-size, taped-up boxes and 25 loose pieces of art.
Eight days ago, Sunday the 10th, I was sitting in the recliner writing my Morning Pages when a strange thought appeared in gray ink – What if I park the Camry across the street after the Tuesday church interview and don’t drive it the next five days? Then, not 10 minutes later, the thought became a decision.
Monday morning I drove to the closer-to-me Trader Joe’s, which I’m learning to love, and sort of stocked up. Later I drove to the Rhododendron Garden. Tuesday I drove to coffee, to a used bookstore for a five-dollar art book, and to the interview. I parked back home across the street at 4:45 and the car’s moved just 10 feet since – moving a bit up the curbstone Friday to lessen the chance of the neighborhood confusing a Morning Page guest with abandonment.
And what I’ve noticed, through those five days, is that I’ve barely noticed.
They say feelings aren’t facts. I don’t know about that. The way I feel looking at clouds some days feels as real as 9 x 9 is 81. Maybe you feel that way. For me, the first bird-song of the morning. Learning how to cook all over again for maybe the first time. Pelicans.
I’m on an early morning walk yesterday, out on Hancock, back on Schuyler, and I get the feeling that finding, applying for, interviewing for, and being offered a job with a time sheet and a boss and probably lots of requirements is just about gone in my life. This 77-year old, gypsy, flying out of a basement in NE Portland to chase wonder and grace and all that great stuff life. Late last night I received word letting me know I would not be hired by the Waverly Heights church. There is now nothing pending.
Call it my stubborn-ness (I prefer “To thine own self be true”) of what I will and won’t agree to; maybe it’s about my birth certificate; possibly employers don’t get all the wicked cool-ness and hip-ness right there in and on my resume – who can say?
Which, say this feeling is in fact a fact, then it’s become imagining far outside the box time for your devoted blogger, because I am on a wild, rather urgent mission to rescue my 19 boxes of books, CD’s, and more important stuff, and about 25 loose paintings from an ‘I’ve got to pay for it’ storage unit in Idaho and get those goodies down here. Where they belong.
Nibbles of ideas….
If the creek don’t rise and I’m still waking up to each day’s sunlight, perhaps next week I can come here and be a bubble – all rainbowy in the sun – and float some possibly interesting thoughts about a way to pay for that rescue without a payday.
I had an interview at four o’clock yesterday afternoon at the Waverly Heights United Church of Christ in SE Portland. The interview was for a position of ‘Building Coordinator.’ I was interviewed by four people, including the part-time Minister. Her name’s Molly.
I couldn’t tell you how the interview went, as in is it a possibility I’ll be offered a second interview, or even the job. I certainly did make a point of pointing out my practice of Ch’an (Zen) Buddhism, even slipped in some of the lingo. A bit from those meetings too. Never mind this wild and crazy life on full display.
Here’s a question – “Right now, in real time, send me a calendar invitation on your cell phone.” And my answer – “I don’t know how.” Here’s a question – “Your cover letter says you are looking for 15 hours or less of weekly work. This position is posted as 20. If you are offered this position at 20 hours will you accept it?” And my yackety yackety yak answer – “No.” And just so you don’t think I’m a total jughead, many of my more human, graceful, dignified responses to ‘human’ questions brought praise, and even thanks.
Sly and The Family Stone – “Different strokes for different folks.”
So, who knows. Gavin had called me earlier in the day and I told him it felt like an opportunity to step into the shimmery land of guerilla theater. Even dressing up in costume, some of that.
