God Is the Needle & I’m the LP…

Posted on June 3, 2010

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Hawthorne Blvd, a street filled with coffee shops, bookstores, and the messenger-bag wearing Bohemians that consistently brave the never-ending Portland drizzle. Me, a transient, wearing a black raincoat– a birthday present from my girlfriend– and a golf hat that covers a newly buzzed haircut, listening to a man with wild, unkempt blond hair, playing a cello on the street corner… His playing is almost as wild as his hair, almost but not quite, passionate yet patient as he waits for the loose change and the sweaty, crumpled dollars of passers-by. His name is Martin, I discover while listening. A fitting name for an artist, I think. I’m in Portland and I’m home. Books, coffee, writing, and the eager kisses of a new love fill my day-to-day existence. And as such I’m dirt-ass broke, but still somehow happier than I was in Nashville. I feel guilty for saying that, guilty like the mother of the crying baby, sitting three tables away, who is too tired to quiet her impish looking infant. But I’m not perturbed by the baby as much as by the simple fact that I’ve only got three cigarettes left in my pack and I’ll be lucky if my car will make it home. The tank is on E, but it’s a Honda and I could probably drive to Seattle with the needle on E. What would Martin do?

All of this to say that life is a feast, a scary and turbulent feast, filled with light and laughter, rain and poetry. From Bukowski to Neruda, I’m addicted. Completely and utterly addicted.

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Posted in: blogging, God, Life, Love, Prayer