Portland life and stuff and things

On Tuesday I put on

  • my black dress I’d bought in high school, the same one as my sister’s
  • the white shirt from the Nuevo Laredo puglas market,
  • the grey jacket the female loan officer gave me in Acuna,
  • the blue socks my boyfriend’s mother gave me in New Orleans for Christmas,
  • the black leggings my mother gave me in Cali three years ago when I was sad and had said that I’d always wanted to own a pair of leggings
  • the blue shoes I’d bought in Target, the same as the ones my sister had bought (unknown to me at the time of my purchase–another eerie example of twin psychic-ness? eeee!)

and set off on the red bike, beat-up and ugly, that I’d bought myself three years ago to help mend a broken heart, and my boyfriend’s green T-rex snowboarding helmet that an Australian folksinger addicted to heroin had given to him as a gift. I rode off for my first day at work at my new job. It felt good. The Portland weather was blustery yet surprisingly warm; I didn’t need to pull on my rain pants (left behind at my house by my friend, who’d worn them during rugby practice). My belly was full of lentils and brown rice and smoothie. Later that evening I made plans with my little brother for the summer: roadtrips to California, Sasquatch music festival in the Columbia gorge, Shakespeare plays in southern Oregon.

It was a good feeling. I felt like I knew how to be happy. I felt like I knew how to live my life.

Today I went to the first day of the Portland farmer’s market downtown, where I admired the vegetables, marveled at the crowds and delighted in the flowers.

I did lots of little, simple things. I went to the library and checked out too many books, some that I’d read before (The Mad Toy, Artificial Respiration), others that I hadn’t (The Shrouded Women, Onetti’s The Shipyard in English and Bodysnatchers). I bought Street Roots and gave out most of my change (I had to pick out all my Colombian coins first) to some panhandlers. I went to Powell’s and spent ages in the different sections: magazines, self-published zines, fiction, writing, self-help, poetry. And now the kitchen where I’m writing is filling up with people looking over my shoulders and asking me “what are you writing?” (my biggest pet peeve ever!!), and I just remembered I need to start marinating my fish so that I can start cooking my soup, so I’ll just end this very simply. I came home and felt the need to write it down: I had a good day.

Also, this video by Cary Tennis.

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Filed under Dear Diary, happy, portland

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