the thing about this weather in portland oregon, the rain and completely gray canopy is that the weather doesn't seem like its up there, happening in the sky it's not something that you can look up at and observe but feel detached from, like the great uncontrollable force it is, as it rolls through. the weather in portland isn't detached, it's on your shoulders and in your eyes. it covers your clothes, it covers your feet, it changes your face. it's oppressive, part of what you breathe, part of what you think.

and then it clears


and when it clears i dont know what to think, because i'm used to having this thing that really is just precipitation and clouds on my shoulders above my coat. but on days where i have no need for a coat and don't have to wear heavy boots, it feels like all i want to do is sit and pull every breath into my chest and feel my chest expand fully - deeply - and wide across because i am unencumbered by the atmosphere, which shouldn't have been my responsibility in the first place.

the ancient man that lives across the hall and i sat on the porch, and listening to the rhythm of the city train cross on schedule, he said to me, "well that's the thing about portland in the dead of winter...it doesn't keep any secrets from us, does it?"

then we saw the tiny drops of rain on our cigarettes, and shuffled inside.

i just feel inextricably strange tonight. maybe the word is solitary. maybe it’s because the apartment across the hall is empty. maybe its because i feel like i can’t keep up in conversation, and then the words im typing can’t keep up with me. the whole thing – whatever it is, feels very fragile. sometimes when I feel like this, or the other night, when I half climbed half fell out of bed, partially drunk, partially hysterical full of dizzying thoughts, Iisit and watch the Fremont bridge from my apartment, across the city. seeing the diminished frequency of cars as they pass the upper and lower decks calms me, as though the whole city is falling asleep, or is feeling the same, or hopefully, not feeling the same at all. i dont know why this physical structure, with its two red lights blinking in perfect time makes me feel calm, or rights my mind. sometimes i pacify myself with cigarettes, but hate the ash they leave behind, burned out, hollowed out, smelling ugly. there is no music for this, no soundtrack, no epic ballads, just the strange sound of the heater turning itself on because I forgot a window open, as I fight for sleep, covered in quilts and comforters, but still shivering in the tangerine sheets of my bed.

i've been washing my face at night with grapefruit and honey soap hoping that i will wake up fresh faced and smooth. fresh faced, smooth, tender. it's all right, soon enough we will be eating tomatoes and greens that just had their own dirt washed off them, soon enough we will smell like apricots, be smooth as violets, and smoking blueberry tobacco, drinking tea, visiting in the sun, remembering why we study the books we do, remembering what it was like before - and remembering what it's like just to be a person again, and turning our ribs to honeycomb.

chainsmoking weather

sunday morning i'm sleeping past what i should, am awake for only an hour before i feel like i either need to chainsmoke or nap, and both are equally upsetting urges. i like thinking about what is a thousand miles away. i think about the things i want, when i have them, when i don't, and when i'm too malcontent to know the difference. i think about when things are too late, or if they ever are, and also i think that my soundtrack is both songs from before i met you, before i moved, but i can only hear parts of their choruses through the radio static. this small room, that old chair, that big plant, it all makes it feel like these thoughts are ok.