Welcome West
Dear Friends!
It’s been a hectic last few days, and after a fashion, Twitter hasn’t been able to provide me the obtuse long-format writing style I do so very much enjoy.
PORTLAND, F**KING OREGON! We’re here! And still alive to boot, what luck! Since arriving a week ago, we’ve been navigating the wonderfully-wide world of apartment bureaucracy, Mass-Transit maze-y-ness, and gearing up for our extended stay in the prophesied City o’ Dreams. Despite the fast-paced, new strangeness of it all, there’s been very little to disappoint.
We touched down and deplaned on Wednesday the 27th, snagging our absurdly heavy sacks and suitcases (which, it turns out, the airport people like to charge extra for [though, I should mention, the U.S. Airways teller cut a deal, saving me a would-be-charge of 50 bucks,]) and hightailing it to the Red-Line light-rail inbound from Zone Three. (Already, the perks of a HL2 or 1984 dystopian metropolis sans dystopia.) We disembarked at Pioneer Square, in the heart of the hustling, bustling, flow; commuters heading home from work, stray lovers reconnoitering on the stepped plaza, congressmen hypothesizing in their red and blue-tied suits, a 20-something playing a 40-something on the municipal chess board. Oh, and it was in the mid-fifties. Fahrenheit. Above.
Eat your hearts out, Midwesterners. 
We bopped into a Starbucks, just off the mass-transit line, and nursed a drink as we reveled in the experience of the thing – waiting for the appearance of our resident-contact, Mr. Robert Scholz. A little over an hour or two later, we’d connected, and were traveling with Tri-Met (Mass transit,) heading Northwest. We snagged some basic sandwich supplies at our terminal stop, and an over-encumbered hop, skip, and jump later we’d arrived at Spartan Way, our address for the foreseeable future.
Ben and I toured our first apartment on Thursday the 28th, and were generally floored by the possibility the site entailed. Located at Sylvan Heights (a veritable verdant grove of Elfin sanctity,) we made the preliminary arrangements to have our names added to the potential residents list (at that time, blank) and proceeded to travel back into the heart of the city to acquire further goods. A suspiciously perfectly priced umbrella alerted us to the fact that Portland, OR doesn’t have sales tax.
That, and everyone is charming. Subway clerks laugh and joke about the radio’s popular hits, people on the train ask about current events with little to no preamble or cause, street musicians visit with one another by the sheer nature of their profession, and good grief, people are nice! Minnesota, I don’t know if you can match this.
Rob hisself’s turned out to be a incredibly great guy – originally made his acquaintance maybe two months ago via the Internet, and ever since have been finding him to have all the trappings of “one of the gang.” He’s been an invaluable resource in helping us navigate the Tri-Met system and other local intricacies, he’s INSANELY well connected, (dated Will Wright’s daughter in High-School, was in The Importance of Being Earnest with Bruce Campbell’s son, has an Uncle who’s a guitarist for Boston, the list goes on,) he’s got an appetite for all things fantastically nerdy and then some, and carries an air of capable wit, something he’s demonstrated on multiple occasions to great effect.
The 29th was a day of waiting/trying to make other connections with Land-Barons and Apartment Tycoons, but unfortunately started to find that without much of a history or job prospects, we’d need a little bit more than a favorable credit report to get us a leg-up in this business.
On the 30th, we were contacted by the Sylvan Heights realtor, reporting that while things were looking good, we would be required to find a cosigner to be on our application. Evidently, what cosigning an apartment entails is a willingness to pay rent for a minimum of sixth months, regardless of whether or not the main tenants are going to stick around. A little steep for anyone to consider at this juncture, but preliminary investigations began. An idle brain-storm posed to Rob (that we might work out some kind of arrangement on the sly, and just help him out with rent and groceries for the month) was met with immediate approval, given the mutual benefits for all parties involved (significantly less funding required than for any other housing arrangement we’d found.)
A telephone call that night signaled Nik Nerburn’s presence in town (a middle-school friend of yore who’s been living an insanely fascinating life chock-full of adventure and hijinx,) for the weekend to celebrate his nephew’s birthday, and in short order he and a couple of Rob’s friends were over having ourselves a pretty grand old time visitating, catching up, and regaling each-other of the news and events that’d transpired since last we met. Nik’s going to school in Olympia now, and we have a standing invitation to venture out that-a-way for a weekend.
The last day of January, and the 1st of February were Rob’s weekend, and we spent a fair chunk of that time diddling out a simple rental agreement, hamming up some nerd-tastic discussions re: Jurassic Park, and potential RP universes, snagging some air mattresses for Mister Ben and I to crash on, clearing out Rob’s apartment’s 2nd bedroom, oont making some bomb-diggity food with our grocery shopped foodstuffs.
Unfortunately, on the 2nd, I discovered that I had contracted a fever and sore throat, which I subsequently spent most of that day and today recovering from – but thank goodness, it’s pretty much subsided. Throat’s still a little tender, but the occasional shot of apple cider vinegar, and gargling with salt water have really done a number on whatever fool Oregonian virus I dun’ contracted.
So, now, with a least a month-long address – and at least an intermittent Internet signal (we’re piggy-backing off of some local phenomenon) the Job-Hunt can begin in earnest tomorrow. Our rhythms adapted pretty easily to the two-hours earlier difference, and with the constantly incredible weather (sometimes spotty mist, generally very temperate temperature) we’ve had little-to-no trouble slipping into the city’s mantle. Up next, it’s getting our hooks into the social scene, and finding some kind of occupation to start racking in the dough.
But so far (not to sound cliché,)
Sooooooooooooooo good.
Rawr.
National Novel Writing Month has begun, progressed, and is about half-way done by now.
OMIGOODNESS, it’s insane. I hope to catch up this next week when, happily, I’ll be able to go home for a week-long stint before Thanksgiving. If you’re interested, here’s my profile, and a little synopsis of that story.
Just one more thing to report: This weekend past, six of my friends and I spontaneously decided to make a movie. In one evening. With no planning. We chose a theme (Retro Sci-Fi Adventure,) took five minutes to throw on a costume, and grab some props before heading over to the Center for the Sciences.
Five hours later, we had the footage, a story, and some SUPER-epic photos. Stay tuned for the media-blitz to come. The film’s in post-production, I’m working on a trailer, and the posters…. let’s just say, they’re about the coolest photos I’ve ever been in.
Oh, the title? SPORES.
Burning Bridges,
OH GOD. REMEMBER THIS. Take stock of everything, and know what it is, what it’s like. There are millions of things in the world, and I need to remember them. Grandma’s fuzzy chin, her letters. Mum and Dad’s smell of sandlewood and engine oil. His hands dry and catching like velcro.
Jarring,
Behold, A Horse
The soldiers shamble to their posts,
their arms are sore, their hearts morose.
Another day of war and fights;
and day dawn’s light as bright as night’s.
The bodies steeped against the wall
shift from rot and start to fall.
Spears are shattered, favors lost,
wives forgot, and lovers crossed.
Snotty slaturns wash the stables,
fecal scum coats all the tables.
An opal knife might cut through bread,
but marks in wood are just as dead.
The walls are buttressed by the felled,
the boys, the men, the seldom geld-
ing smashed against the stone.
A lonely soldier’s moan begins to drone.
A dove will fall into the fire,
as cook will smile her life’s retire.
Pidgins roost in saddlebags,
their horse’s bellies ’stend and sag.
But on the ramparts looking out,
a young recruit will give a shout,
“At gate’s position, stands a thing…”
What, in the night, the Greeks did bring?
The guardsmen race onto the ‘parts,
the corpse-movers work in fits and starts
to clear the city’s gate;
And Troy is once more opened for a day.
The mass is pulled into the square,
as villager-soldiers breathe the air
and watch the heaving wreck:
its equine head sways on a creaking neck.
From timbers fine, its back holds up
a coat of pine and heavy gut,
legs stand on board a deck that’s towed,
as logs below convey the load.
Grim morning sun above the clouds,
casts dapple pallor on the crowds.
They stand in awe at gate and horse,
the quiet scene bears no remorse.
A wench in stocks, then, starts to grin,
with gravy-drool-flecked-dirt on chin,
her teeth a mass of scraggle, gum,
“Rest like the dead! The war is won!”
In castle’s keep, the kingdom’s lord
glistens wearing Trojan horde.
His daughter walks to window’s sill,
and gasps at sight of feared: fulfilled.
She begs him, “King! Father, my lord,
do not accept this fell reward!
Invite the horse, our end’s assured!”
He heeds her not. Speaks but one word.
In city’s square the mood is light,
though dancing, singing, none seems right,
until the lad set out at night,
confirms “Greeks gone!” Their freighters flight.
Then stupor begins! The bacchanal,
blood-touched wine runs down the walls.
The revelry runs into the eve,
and manic joy’s at last perceived.
In tower tall, the princess watched,
her cheeks and tear-touched skin unwashed,
King sighs again, speaks only thus,
an eponymous name, some strange “Epeus”
When long at last the people fall
to sleep on ground, on wood, in cowl,
the dark cloud day gives way to night,
and horse’s eyes flicker but once, a light.
Into silent barrack-turned feast-time inn,
around the beds and cradles grim,
past sleeping harlot, wench, and whore,
step sprightly enders of the war.
Back to the gate, the moon-glints go
and with a single whispered “Ho”
the door is pushed through carrion gore,
that since morning’s fallen from bulwark-shore.
At long-ended last, the doors were forced,
by troops disgorged from wooden horse,
received as gift wishing war’s battles end.
What Greek’s ship absences portend.
The ‘G’ is my specialty,
The world of Matt has been a little hectic for a while now, what with re-learning radio-shtuff with MSM, and slowly but surely making headway in that Maddening universe. Just recently, the idea of doing a collaborative film project with my esteemed college cohorts resurfaced, and at our weekly ‘get-together and be creative on purpose’ night (today) I busted out ye olde’ laptop, and started hammering away on a potential opening scene. If it stays true to the universe in question, the movie would be a companion to MSM, giving a sort of 3-dimensional and extra-cinematic quality to some of the characters and organizations.
I’ve been fortunate enough to play some Halo 3: ODST with my cohorts from home, and while the internet problem has been a phantom thorn in everyone’s foot, there’s no denying that the game is pretty brilliant. ODST offers both a very different take on the single-player storyline for a first-person-shooter, and a GLORIOUS “Firefight” mode, pitting me and my three friends against wave after wave of alien baddies. We’ve also been doing pretty well with sticking to our ‘once a week sit down and teleconference a game of D&D’ plan, though it sounds like school’s exponential curve of work may begin to disqualify us all too soon. We shall see.
Tomorrow is supposed to be rainy, and I have a pile of library books to finish by Saturday. Hello rocking chair and peppermint tea: I have a plan.
I sign letters ‘MGR’
This is the workshop. The pantry. The card catalog of my achievements. The collection. The repository. The online access to a handful of my creative works.
Some of them are games. Some of them are pseudo-professional. Some of them are dangerous, and shouldn’t be entered into lightly. And many of them are strange.
Look around. It’s only a start, but even the Universe had to begin somewhere.
