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.