Farewell Portlandia, 12.17.13

In a few hours I board my last leg of this "around the country" train journey. I'm sitting in the Portland Amtrak Union Station (every train station in the country seems to be called Union Station!) waiting to board the Portland to Bellingham route. I'll begin this final blog now, tweak it during the six hour train ride (as has been my habit), then post it tomorrow.

No museums today. No library loafing or drawing, either. Just wandering this interesting city shopping, eating, and fighting melancholia.

Psychologists have described an interesting phenomenon about perception. They say "how" one perceives the final stages of any endeavor colors the whole endeavor. A good mariage that ends poorly is colored poorly, as if the whole marriage had been terrible, which often it is not. A bad ending of a movie colors the whole movie. And if the last days of an otherwise terrific vacation are troubled they color the whole vacation with negativity. I will do my best to combat this phenomenon.

One of the last trips Vicki and I did together was a train trip to Portland. I hadn't remembered this until I deboarded my train from Sacramento last night and recognized the Portland Union Station. Prowling the city yesterday and today, like Vicki and I did several years ago, was emotionally troublesome. I shuddered to recall the difficulty she had navagating escalators, tripping over curbs, and finding the relatively simple city bus system very confusing.

I also had happy memories today as I visited Powell's City of Books (another of our life long loves was frequenting used book stores), the mall where we clutched each other in fear as festive trapese artists dangled and danced suspended from ribbons 100 feet in the air, and as I walked past the most plush movie theater she and I ever attended (we saw a film about a child prodigy artist years ago while sitting in overstuffed recliners and one of us drank a beer).

One of the goals of this trip was to come to grips once and for all with bereavement, aloneness, and grief. It turns out this is a fool's errand. One does not grieve "once and for all." It's a permanent condition one learns to live with. I wandered the streets talking to Vicki under my breath (I have a new appreciation for people on city streets who mutter to themselves), expressing my lament, loss, and love. I have no clue if she hears me (I actually belive not), but doing so reinforces my determination to live the rest of my days honoring her memory, behaving in ways she'd approve of, and being the guy she always believed in.

So after 30 days away from home, 30 days of shift in my role as primary caregiver to her and to my mother, and after waking up for 30 days with no agenda, no schedule, and no goal other than to experience the country again as a semi homeless vagarant (this time with a credit card), I am ready to reenter the world of responsibilities, wage earning, and life in Whatcom county.

This may entail teaching kids art, working with the homeless, creating my own art/pictures, writing my own books/graphic novels, inventing the great American adjustable round chart (in every museum gift shop I visited I envisioned displays of puzzles, games, and brain teaser wheels I've invented), or any of a hundred other creative endeavors.

The value of this month of wilderness wandering likely will not be fully appreciated until I've settled back in to my routines. Until then here are some random observations.

1. Art therapy works. Viewing and creating art, so the experts tell us, rewires our synapses in ways that relieve pain. It does. It also fuels imagination. When I was into vegetable gardening during the Nixon administration I memorized this poem, "A kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth. One's nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth." Seeing so much cool art inspired this bit of doggerel, "Lock me in a room with pencils. Feed me through a hole in the door. Provide me with reams of paper and still I will ask you for more."

2. A rail pass may not be cost effective. To get full advantage of the "twelve segments in 30 days" package one must either spend all their time getting on and off trains (and not see much of any one place), or spend extended time in different places and not use up all 12 segments.

3. I'd kill for a green smoothie. After 30 days without a blender my body is done trying to acclimate itself to donuts, sugar, and animal products. I'm going to invent the tofu and kale only diet starting tomorrow.

4. I'm no fan of noisy people. I am astonished at how inconsiderate others are. I never again want to hear one sided phone conversations, chatty train travelors' innane jabberings, or people who think others enjoy being their audience. A pox on all noise polluters. I'm tempted to cheer like the bus passengers in What About Bob? when noisy passengers get off my train. If I get off first I'll dance a little victory dance.

5. I am transfixed by others' creativity. I'm partial to paintings and drawings but well written fiction, nonfiction, or screen plays, elaborate sculpture, masks, or sky scrapers, ingenuity at addressing problems like homelessness, existential angst, or shuttling thousands of commuters by car, taxi, bus, subway, train, plane, or elevator leave me in awe. Travel exposes one to many new and beautiful novelties.

6. There's a difference between aloneness and loneliness. I've been alone, with the exception of four hours with Edward the homeless guy, for weeks but experienced loneliness only sporadically. When the demon of loneliness hits (and according to my lonely clients loneliness is a tragedy of demonic proportions), my escape has been an active imagination (think Walter Mitty), sketchbook, bookstore, and connection with others by phone, text, or blog.

7. Things to bring next time. Handiwipes. I'm no germophobe but I am aware of how many foreign objects I touch in a day. Extension cord. I watched The West Wing reruns on my tablet each night and I'm astonished how inconveniently located the plug ins are in every place I stayed. On trains outlets are everywhere, thankfully.

8. Things not to bring next time. Books. I've been lugging around two books and haven't cracked them in weeks. The conductor of my first train in Florida gave me a spy thriller (Black List by Brad Thor) and that's what I've been working on all this time. I'm determined to get 'er done before Bellingham.

Time to board my last train for a while. See ya!

Post script. The so caled thriller Black List was terrible, confusing, and convoluted. The only thing thrilling about it was finishing it.

Sleeping in Coach, 12.16.13

I boarded the train from Sacramento to Portland at midnight last night and chose not to use a sleeping compartment again. This meant another evening trying to adjust my inflexible body to immovable seats. Something's gotta give. Either Amtrak must design cushier seats or the human body must evolve to accommodate this hostile environment. I spent the last six hours contemplating what shape the human body must adopt to keep traveling by coach from making me crazy. Here are the designs I came up with.

Quickie Sketches, 12.15.13

Four works that inspire.

Crocker Museum of Art, 12.15.13

The church service I attended this morning ended at eleven. I then checked out of my motel, walked to an office supply store and bought a new pencil eraser (ahh, that felt good), stashed my duffle bag at the train station, and then walked to the Crocker Art Museum. I find the juxtaposition of uber wealth (Crocker was a Sacramento judge whose home and art collection are worth millions), and abject poverty (the homeless literally ate up the benevolence of Hipanics, Buddhists, and Salvation Army workers), oddly reassuring. I want a steady diet of life's weal and woe.

To the rarified world of art dealers I'm what's known as an outsider. I am not part of the elite. I am also one of those whom the insiders look down on because I don't know art but I know what I like. And I saw a LOT at the Crocker that I liked. Each of these pieces evoke nice feelings and deserve further elaboration but I'm typing on my tablet while riding the train through southern Oregon and am somewhat destracted.

In Defense of Chaos, 12.15.13

The warm up station of the Salvation Army church was small and felt jammed with ten people inside. Edward introduced me to John who said he wasn't going to the church service because he doesn't believe in that stuff. A woman in ragged clothes and runny nose (I actually saw very few people who didn't have runny noses), spent ten minutes perusing the free literature rack. I recognized not one of the books. It looked like they were all Salvation Army titles.

People in SA uniforms busied themselves walking through the warm up station and into the locked chapel area. It wasn't ten o'clock yet and they were still preparing the service. Two guys in uniforms and instruments, a cornet and a tuba, walked tnrough. Another uniformed lady walked outside and shouted, "You can't do that here. This isn't a park!" I have no idea what they were doing.

John eyed me suspiciously and said, "You don't look homeless."

I said, "I'm not. I'm here as Edward's guest."

Satisfied, he went gack to staring into space.

When the doors finally opened and church goers entered the chapel Edward apparently forgot I was there and sat alone in the front row. I sat speechless in the second to the back row for the next hour while cacophony reigned. Despite a bulletin and order of service, the schedule was thrown off in the first three minutes.  Here are the ingredients that assaulted my senses for 60 minutes. These are not sequential, they are synchronous.

A TV up front played a Christmas themed DVD.
The brass duo played.
A man with a mop wiped up what I hoped was spilled coffee.
People shouted nonsense utterances.
People, including Edward, chatted noisily while helping themselves to free coffee and donuts off to the side.
Through a glass window up front I could see another meeting going on, people standing, walking, talking. I suspect it was for those unwilling to attend the church service, perhaps an AA meeting.
Someone read John 1:1-14.
Someone preached.
Derelict men and women wandered the aisles.
For special music a lady in her seventies with tatoos, pink hair, wearing tons of jewelry including an LED flashing ring, brought a child's doll up front that, when you pushed her button, sang a Christmas Carol. "I bought this on sale after Christmas last year and now I finally get to use her." The singing doll was her musical accompaniment.
Another person read John 1:1-14 again.
A guy with a guitar sang Christmas Carols.
Those who could track with all this loved it. When one of the many speakers said, "Jesus is the reason for the season," whoops and hollars went up.
The MC asked, "Does everyone have a bulletin?" When she learned we did she shouted, "Praise the Lord."
Several women stood with raised arms.
They lit the third Advent Candle.
They took an offering (another five dollar donation).

What struck me about this cacophony was the joy it brought so many people. Edward sat in the front row eating it up. He asked clarifying questions. The message was the same message everyone has heard who has ever been to an evangelical church. Salvation Army workers all deserve medals.

In a previous post I mentioned the energy and dynamism of New York city. There was a spiritual energy in this noisy church service. It's not something I'd enjoy week after week--tuba has never been my instrument of choice--but such a meeting is a labor of love by the long suffering and harried officers.

When the service ended I walked up to Edward, thanked him for the invitation, and said godbye. He never asked where I came from, where I lived, or where I was going. He was plotting where to get his next meal.

Sacramento, The Non Museum Crowd, 12.15.13

I woke up today interested in attending either the Greek Orthodox church I passed last night while walking from the train station to my motel, or the Presbyterian church I found on Google maps which was in even closer walking distance. It seemed appropriate to engage in sacrament while in Sacramento. Instead, I accepted an invitation to go the the Army of Salvation church from a cross eyed, toothless, homeless guy wearing a skull cap, hoodie, dirty sweat pants, and carrying all his possessions in a plastic bag.

My first visit to Sacramento was in 1972 as a hitch hiking, semi homeless 19 year old vagabond. My second visit to Sacramento involved befriending Edward, a full fledged homeless 40 year old. It's a circle of life kind of thing.

This morning's breakfast meant donuts in the shop across the street from my motel. As I sat at a small table enjoying a bismark and coffee I noticed that all the customers were single black men, all in varying degrees of mental illness or hangover. The exception was the two white, fully grown, skater dudes wearing chains, steam punk boots, ammo belts, Magritte bowler hats, and leather. They rode across the parking lot and up to the front door of the donut shop like pros, flipped their boards into the air and caught them with deft one handed grabs, waltzed right in, politely ordred three donuts each, stuffed the bags of donuts into their back packs, and rode off into the morning sunshine like this was normal behavior for thirty year olds.

Two black guys sat at the table next to me, one of whom had a big Twelve Step book. The guy with the book turned around and said sweetly, "Good morning, sir, God bless you. Would you like to join me for church this morning?"

I asked, "Which one?"

He said, "The Army of Salvation church. I walk there every Sunday after I stop at Safeway and this donut shop."

I said, "That's kind of you to offer, but I think I'll pass."

He said, "Okay," and continued to talk to the other guy at his table.

A few minutes later he shoved his Twelve Step book into his clear plastic bag and got ready to leave. I'd done some calculating and figured I really had no other plans and besides, this was the first friendly invitation I've received from anyone to join them in any social activity in three weeks (if you don't count the Hasidic Jews in New York who asked me to buy a manorrah or the hawkers in Times Square trying to get me to attend a Comedy Club).

"When does church start?"

"Ten o'clock."

"It's only eight thirty. What do you do until then?"

"I get free breakfast at the stand down the road."

"I'm not hungry for breakfast but I think I will  join you for church."

"Okay, follow me."

I don't normally do stuff like this (never) but the sun was out, the guy had a guilelessness about him I found compelling, and I couldn't wait to learn more about the Army of Salvation church. I'm a glutton for oddball religious meetings.

During our twenty minute walk I learned his name is Edward, is a crystal meth addict in recovery, has been homeless for sixteen years, and spends every day walking. Walking, walking from place to place to place. He woke up in a park this morning but I didn't ask where, nor did I ask how he gets money for donuts or if he's still using drugs. He did quit tobacco five years ago. He gave me a long involved lecture on the dangers of cow liver and turkey gibblets. One of the reasons he stops in Safeway, if I got the story right, is because he talks to the butcher. There's something about the color of those organs that make him suspicious. He also confessed he's done things that make God unhappy and doesn't want to get condemned for them so that's why he's seeking God.

I asked, "Is this church service going to be weird?"

He laughed and said, "What do you mean?"

"They're not going to do anything to me that will be embarassing, will they?" I was in no mood to be harangued about tongues, donations, or missions but it turns out my fear was unwarranted.

He assured me no and then asked about me. I told him my wife passed away three and a half months ago and to be frank, that I find myself somewhat lost. He offered sincere condolances and then went off on other tangents about health care, cancer, the love of God, and not eating meat with blood in it.

When we got to the neighborhood for free breakfast my eyes widened. The streets in this warehouse district, single story plants and empy fields surrounded by chain link fences with razor wire, were loaded with homeless people. And I mean loaded. Tents, blue tarps, mattresses on the sidewalk (one of which had a teddy bear propped up on the pillow), shopping carts loaded with stuff, and men and women ambling about. Dozens and dozens of them. It reminded me of what Tent City in Seattle must look like, though thankfully, without the kids. Every person , like Edward, was wearing the dirty clothes they slept in.

I am almost certain the department of health would be horrified to see the trash, garbage, and unsanitary condition of this neighborhood.

Our first stop was a free hot chocolate station set up in the road by Hispanics. We both got a hot chocolate.

Our second stop was a sandwhiches and clothes donation station set up in the street by, according to the sign, Compassionate Buddhists. One hundred men and two women (if I did the math right) lined up as we stood for an hour while Buddhists made vegetarian sandwiches. I only took a banana (and donated five dollars). I talked to the organizer who runs a foot massage business during the week but has been driving two hours to Sacramento every Sunday for years to cordinate the twelve volunteers who distribute food and clothing. Later I met a guy named John who received a free sleeping bag and he groused about how small it was. I shamelessly took pictures of this astonishing line up.

During our hour long wait I learned that Edward was raised by hs grandparents, his father was "selfish" (which I took as code for having done something nefarious), and is a bona fide "homeless newspaper" distribution guy. I bought a copy (another five bucks) and can't wait to read up on the problem of homelessness from the point of view of the homeless. He also described with utter confidence his belief that he sees dead people, that the tall Environmental Protection Agency building in the distance had, according to him, appeared out of nowhere, and that it's againt the law to electrify fences.

Our third stop was the Army of Salvation warm up room which turns out was really a Salvation Army church. More about that service later.

For now let me conclude both how shocked and moved I was by the plight of the homeless masses. I've been groping for a new ministry in this new chapter of my life and after this morning I am ready to sign up for Bellingham food and clothing distribution. If a guy is going to be homeless, there's no reason why they shouldn't at least be warm and fed.

Photos from the train, 12.14.15

Somewhere between Denver and California.