from my #notebook-
Sitting in a bar next to the hotel we are staying in in Portland, OR. I really don’t care from nothing about drinking but I am starving and need to eat or I will be fit to be tied in a couple of hours. Though, admittedly, I am having a Goose Port IPA. It is not bad.
Looks like Venezuela is playing the Dominican Republic in some sort of baseball game.
There is a girl crashed in a chair over here to my right. She is all wrapped up in a little ball in the chair. I doubt she is drunk or passed out. I think she is just a tired traveler.
We left the cabin today around 10 AM and traveled to see Mt. St. Helens. We saw Silver Lake and the mountain. We really didn’t see much of the mountain. We did travel up the road a ways, maybe 25 miles or so of the 45 but I decided against traveling too much further.
Afterwards we traveled I-5 a way. I was going to take Angel up to see the capital but she turned me off on Highway 12 before we got to Olympia and we journeyed dang near to Aberdeen before I found the road to Raymond, which we took and went back to Chehalis and Aunt Linda’s. We gathered Mom and drove to Portland and after about an hour of trying to find a restaurant and returning the rental car I am now sitting alone in the bar next to the hotel waiting on a burger, scribbling in my book and being served beer by a man with a manbun.
I may be the only man in this place not wearing a manbun. His arms are majorly tattooed though. I guess all of this makes him incredibly manly.
Signs all over this place say that this bar is under “intense” surveillance. I wonder what that means. How interesting can watching me write in this book be?
Now Across from me in the bar is a group of four sitting at a table. Two of them have more camera equipment than I will ever own. A young girl is using some of this gear to film two women talking at the table. They are no one that I recognise and I am not sure that they are speaking English but the young girl with the camera reminds me of a real young Laura San Giacomo.
I am guessing that this group of four are French from some of the conversation that I have heard.
There is a dark haired girl at the bar with a page boy haircut of sorts. She is 30ish, not overly attractive but she has worked every man at the bar in the last half-hour or so that I have been in here. She will be getting laid by one or all of them tonight.
The blonde crashed in the chair over here just awoke and stormed away when the jukebox- that the bimbo at the bar fed- got really loud all of a sudden, She must be an employee here. SHe has gone in and out of a couple of places that I didn’t know were doors.
The Dominican baseball team is ahead of Venezuela 2-0 in this game of the World Baseball Classic and I just noticed that all the guys around the brunette with the pageboy haircut have left- maybe just outside to have a smoke- and now she is working a young blonde girl sitting next to the her at the bar. I probably shouldn’t be so cynical or perverted but what is going on here is so obvious that even I can see it going on and I am an idiot.
The girl who was crashed over here by me is a pissed-off barmaid. She doesn’t want to be here tonight.
I should probably backup a bit and say that we took the car back to the rental place this evening and we had to wait around for the shuttle to take us back to the hotel. That was a hoot! Man, there are some fucked up people flying into and out of the Portland Airport.
I used to try to sing
With the voice of Milton or Blake
Their rhythms and rhymes
Trying to live their passions
My tongue sacrificed on an altar of rules
Hoping, praying for that spark
The spark they had
The spark that made them great
Dying a passionless death
Of a life not lived
I was mute.
Life’s sadisms must be lived
Pains and Joys
Begin to form a song soft and quiet
Chilling one’s marrow
A little more pain adds melody
Joy more harmony
Too much of one or the other cacophony creates
My song emerges ponderously
From an invisible fog
Now my voice sings
Not Milton or Blake
It comes joyously
It comes fiercely
My voice may rub, may lack beauty
But it’s mine, all mine
Early one morning Nick went to his office to go over some more of the warehouse documents. Already a lady was seated on the couch in his tiny makeshift waiting room. Obviously she was a gal who only responded to “Doll” and fat wallets and was wholly unaccustomed to the tight fit of his office. She wore a rather conservative business suit, the cut of which revealed dangerous curves built only for those with a reckless mind and a daring heart. She was business, all business, and from the high rent district.
We go to the local farmer’s market on a regular basis. We have gotten away from the canned and processed foods that you find in the supermarket. I don’t really know how much of the food at the farmer’s market is organic or pesticide free or is non-gmo or whatever. I don’t really care either. I think most of the talk about that stuff is mostly bs to scare us into submission. I presume that because of the trend in healthy eating that most of the food at the farmer’s market fits within the guidelines of organic.
The fact of the matter for me is that fresh local food tastes better and I pay a local person for his product rather than some nameless corporation. The Mrs cans some of the food herself. Some of it we freeze. Most of it just gets eaten during the week.
As we try to live smaller we have figured out that life has a lot of middlemen in it. The farmer grows his produce. He sells it to a wholesaler. The wholesaler in turns sells it to some big canning company. The big canning company sells it to another wholesaler and that wholesaler sells it to the corporation that owns the store that you buy it in. This is the process at a minimum. It could be a lot worse than that, I suppose. Every one of these people gets their little cut of the pie which drives up the cost for the you the end consumer.
We not only have the cost consideration but we have the time consideration. There is no telling how long it takes to get from the ground to your table in that process. Most of the food is picked before it is ready and is forced to ripen through some chemical process and shipped hundreds, if not thousands, of miles from the farm to your plate. One time we purchased apples grown in South Africa, a distance of more than 9,000 miles to my house! Yeah, I bet that was healthy food to eat and more importantly than that how many starving Africans are there?
All the farmers selling their wares at my local market farm within 100 miles or so of my town. Once in a while you will get some stuff that was picked too early but most of the food was picked within a couple of days of sale and is fully ripened and is all full flavored. This is the biggest concern for me. The food in the grocery store just tastes like plastic. The container the food comes in probably has more flavor than the food.
Most, if not all, of my dealings at the farmer’s market are cash only transactions. The spies in the government and their agents in the banks and corporate stores are not feeding information to anyone else. Our transactions are nameless and traceless. We do not exchange banking information, or addresses, or phone numbers or anything else that might give away anyone’s information. I like that. My business life should be anonymous and private.
All in all the local farmer’s market here is growing. It has more than just worm eaten food. Some folk sell their knick-knacks and homebrewed items. I am not really interested in most of that stuff as the style doesn’t really fit into a minimalist mould but it is cool that it is there for people who want it. We even have local musicians there every week. Many of them sell cds of their music. Some of them are quite good. Of special interest to me is an old man who wrote two books full of stories from his childhood sits there every week in the sun selling his two self-published books. I may have to give him some competition someday.
These were the best of times. These were the worst of times.