My Childhood Friend & Personal Hero At The Moment Jennifer Dent Arsenault (Jenny Dent)
A Memory In the Touchless New Age
Scanning Facebook recently to see how my lovely friends were faring in the new Touch less Pandemic Landscape, I see the usual:
Arguments for taking the family to the beach in quarantine, arguments for not leaving the house in any circumstance.
Questions on what is acceptable for venturing out to get a little sun on their faces while still following the new social distancing rules.
Argumentatively figuring out what social distancing means.
Pictures and stories of friends quarantine experiences, some that reminded me of a story I’d heard about the Great New York Blackout November 9, 1965, conversely, some that looked like stay-cations.
As I scrolled and read, I found that one central theme governs this new day: our society has become touch less. A necessary measure now it seems to flatten the curve of exposure to an aggressive, invasive new virus currently ravaging our planet.
Necessary as it may be, it has its own side effects.
I scroll, taking in the information of others, reading about their politics, perceptions, and responses and mid sentence, an ‘FB memory’ pops up for me. You know, those little adages that FB offers every so often that can come off like a lovely little gift or a nasty curse depending upon the memory and where you now sit with that memory’s scenario. Today it appears, it was a gift. It was a memory of an experience I had with a fingerprinting shop over in Northeast. It had me thinking about our Touch less New Age, mostly it has me hoping that we can one day return to normal, if possible, even better off with that ever so slowly dying spectrum of human culture. There is healing in the human connection. I don’t imagine any pandemic can stop that.
It was March 22, 2018, and I was feeling pretty annoyed and taxed as I drove to the tiny shop way out on Division. They are among the few who take fingerprints for the State of Oregon and other fed background checks for less than $40 bucks. Felt like it took forever to get out there. Both the dog and I were tense when I got out and stalked in there. It was a Vietnamese gift shop stuffed to the brim with jewelry, tea sets, books and other novelties with a small corner in the home for their print business. I was stiff and my hands were cold. The young lady led me over to print board and took my right hand. Her hands were warm, she had a calming quality about her. Each finger on both hands printed on an official card, put in something that looked like an evidence bag. Card number and I.D. documented and the prints given back to me to take back to an organization who then ships it off to the State. I must've only been in there but a few moments and each moment standing in that little shop/house I felt more and more at ease. I took a deep breath and said, "I'm glad I came, it's nice in here." I noticed my hands were warm and bright pink. I walked out onto the patio and down the steps to the car and a first-generation family matron whom I never got to formally meet was playing a musical bell and burning incense in the back garden. She smiled at me as I got into my car and drove away a completely different person than who arrived. Apparently there is a little house on East Division that sells attitude changes.
Powell's Bookstore The Grand Matron Of My Life Story
I remember the day I aged out of Oregon Youth Authority and I found myself homeless. My case manager was in tears, angry that she was taken by surprise and I was in shock. She muttered 'fuck' under her breath, doing everything she could to keep her job while still managing to cram as much social service into this last day for me as she possibly could.
Two other staff members packed my stuff in black plastic bags and placed them by the door, while she spends time on the office phone feverishly trying to piece together some kind of plan. It was astounding how much she was able to put in place. She walks out of the office of the group home and finds me, stoic, frozen, afraid, standing by the front door with my black plastic bags.
She'd called the Social Security Administration, she'd called the housing bureau, she'd called the Youth Homeless Prevention organization at that time called Greenhouse. She called the powers that be at her organization, she'd called the powers that be at Oregon Youth Authority, she called everyone under the sun. Now, it was time to hit the streets.
At that time I'd held down a full-time job at The Mallory Hotel as a buser, hostess helper and dining room assistant. She called the luxury hotel to make sure they would work with me during my transition to hang on to me as much as possible. They said they would. That was a good thing, that was where I was fed.
We got into a state car and rolled over to the YWCA. She checked me in, for a short time I had a roof at a women's shelter. We rolled over the Alder House, the state's first SRO LIHTC rent-controlled building in Portland, we got an SRO room for me to rent. At that time housing practiced age discrimination so it took some serious finagling for her to convince them to rent to an individual one day into her 18th year of life. We rolled over to the Social Security Administration and got 'benefits' in place. I later found out they used my placement in Oregon Youth Authority as a base for disability benefits. Anyone's guess how they pulled that off. Now the sun starts to set and I feel a buzz on the inside of me. My exhausted caseworker takes a deep breath, looks over at me and says, "Okay kiddo, you can do this. You can do this, we got a plan. Work as much as you can at that hotel, BEHAVE yourself at that apartment complex, I mean it, don't fuck with them. I'll call the shelter in a few days." Boom! with that, I and my black plastic bags found our way into a small room with two cots. I roomed with a woman name Naezie, a young, beautiful, middle eastern woman escaping a violent husband. Naezie seemed relieved that I was her roommate. She said some of the faces she saw at the YWCA scared her. I sat on the cot and looked at her, the deep buzzing and spinning head continued. Suddenly I feel an uneasiness, a queasiness. The cots begin to screech at their base, a massive rumbling sound filled the room, we grab hold of the cots and stare at each other even more intently. "My God!" she says in her soft Sudanese accent, we've just had an earthquake.
Seems fitting.
Over the hours Naezie and I walk the streets of Portland getting to know one another. We plan our next steps, I feel better knowing I've got someone, a base, a friend. She was 15 years older than I and I was comfortable in her presence. We grab a slice of pizza on Burnside and head to Powell's Bookstore.
"Hey, you ever been to this place Naezie? Careful, you'll get lost."
At the group home, you'd find a good deal of my 'sisters' hanging out at Paranoia Park (O'Bryant Square) a punk scene, Satyricon, and Greenhouse. I frequented those places too, but most of my experience was spent idling the hours away at Burnside's Powells Bookstore. Education was never a priority to the Youth Authority in those days. We educated ourselves. I permitted my meager budget to buy books and magazines. Mostly, Powells Bookstore taught me about my fellow man. In a clean, safe environment I learned about the outside world, and now I was right in it.
Fast forward to 2020, I'm 45 years old, and right as if it was taken directly from the pages of a manuscript I'm working on, we're knee-deep in a worldwide pandemic. I see this Grand Matron Powells Bookstore, closed to the public. She's quiet, still, lonely. I sit for a moment and think, I could swear I can feel the heartbeat of the city become weaker. Yes, it has become weaker. May this great Dame rise again and give birth to another generation of stronger, more educated and united public than ever before. May she rise like a Phoenix, immune and thriving. I give a moment of great thanks to Mother Powells. I imagine a better day.
The Impossibly Quiet Streets Of Portland Morning of New Years Day 2020
If there ever was a photo that summed up Nature’s attitude toward us at the moment:
तिहार Kukur Tihar
Tihar (Nepali: तिहार), is a five-day-long Hindu festival celebrated primarily in Nepal and some parts of India such as Darjeeling district, Kalimpong district, Sikkim, and Assam. It is the festival of lights, , the festival begins with Kaag Tihar in Trayodashi of Kartik Krishna Paksha and ends with Bhai Tika in Dwitiya of Kartik Sukla Paksha every year.
The festival is prayer and homage to elders and gods, but also to animals such as crows, dogs, and cows that have long lived in relationship with humans. Grace and I celebrate day two Kukur Tihar, prayer to dogs for appreciation in their companionship.
The shame of complacency
“Luis Alberto Urrea’s words are some of the most important I’ve heard since this administration was set into place. I can think of no greater way to put it.”
Nuclear Winter
Be very careful___of your measuring stick.
Do you measure the base, the height, the width, the length, the substance of the thing? Yourself? As folks approach you, and size you up as they do:
So, what do you do?
Who are you with?
What is your degree?
Where did you get that degree?
Who represents you?
Who are you friends with?
What's your portfolio?
Who's your agent?
As these measuring sticks break out and make their way to your being to measure you, or you, take your stick to another? Are you remembering that measurements rarely hold the balance?
I've seen grand structures, more ornate than the Duomo fall like dominoes at the slightest shake of the earth. I've seen block utility buildings survive like cornerstones of the earth through time, damage, floods, change and the human measuring stick.
The substance of the thing, the foundation of the thing shall hold the balance. If you have lost what looks like the height of your life, have you not in the cyclone of life begun to gain a stronger substance? A more unmovable foundation? So what then happens when the structure begins to rebuild itself?
For those knocked off their balance and sitting amid their rubble today, dust flying and dizzying disbelief, what looks like destruction insurmountable, is the removal of false structure. One that if you fully inhabited it, would crumble down upon your head in a fatal crush should Nature decide to test the bounds. Instead, what happens when this structure falls before your eyes? This time, we take concern for the substance of the thing. This time, we move to design a structure strong enough, worthy enough, safe enough to invite those we love in. A structure that can shelter others in the fallout. We aren't talking about storms here. We are talking about Nuclear Winter.
Angels In America, continued
Neighbors we see around town every now and then attending the street fair on Main Street. It struck me today when I saw them, the sight of their little boy clutching the American flag with determination. His grandmother instilling in her generations a sense of loyalty and respect for this nation. They work their asses off for this nation. They spend their hard earned money on the little shops on Main Street every year, helping to keep them open. I wish this nation's loyalty was returned to them. The daughter is doing an essay about this at school, I sent her this image
Forest Avenue Press Lights PDX
I'm over the moon about my friend and YOUR hometown publishing hero Laura Stanfill's recent win:
(Forest Avenue Press has acquired award-winning author Beth Kephart's memoir, WIFE / DAUGHTER / SELF, in a pre-empt)
Beth Kephart is one of my go-to literary influences for composition in visual to writing flow and presentation. She is a particularly exceptional instructor. I'm excited for you Laura, as always my friend, this town is lucky to have you
Hank's Place on the 4th of July
I was in my old neighborhood where I was raised for a few years as a child and decided to dip in the old Dunkin Donuts (now Sesame) I don't know why, I just did.
I get to the counter and I tell the gal at the register that I'd first walked in here with my Blue Birds group in 2nd grade. She smiled and said "I hear SO much nostalgia at this location"
Behind me walks in an old gentleman with eyes that look as though they've seen thousands of years of wisdom. Immediately, I knew he was a citizen of a strained income. His stained and ripped coat looked as though it had been loved threadbare and would continue to be until it fell off of him. All the employees said in unison "Hi Hank!" They knew him. He was a daily customer. If money would provide then he'd sit and have a cup of coffee and read the print newspaper all day in their chairs out front. I said, "I'd like to buy Hank whatever he would like this morning."
His face lit up.
"Oh thank you! You know what this means right? I get to sing you a song."
With honestly the most beautiful male voice I've heard in acapella he sang the old tune 'Hey Good Lookin' He hit every note and the timing was as perfect as if he had a band accompaniment. Everyone at the register smiled. The gal at the register said, "He sings to me too! The pretty girls get the songs." I left there with this feeling that not all was lost. So Hank, you wonderful songbird, I celebrate you and everything YOU do to make this country more bearable. I'm off to go make some art today in Warm Springs. I've got your song with me and I'll play it over and over on the drive over the pass. Godspeed my friend!
Visitors
It never fails. BAM! I hit the window of life and fall stunned to the ground, reeling. I thought for sure it was a through way. I thought for sure!
Didn’t I see the glare? Didn’t I see it coming? I am wandering, wandering. Soon my milieu changes, where am I? What has happened here? I am soon faced with this larger than life thing. This inescapable scenario. I think I must be the only one, then, a bird hits my window or wildlife takes a wrong turn into my home.
Although, I work to not perpetuate magical thinking, I do have to wonder about the timing. These visitors come to me when life takes it’s most surprising turns.
They arrive with the precursor of big change. It’s always been that way. I’ve no idea why or how. All I know is that, as one who is so strongly attached to nature and her elements, how else is she supposed to carry on a conversation with me? Particularly when I am closed off. Nature, really has been the only constant in my life.
It explains why in so many aspects, I’m so feral. And, after all, in one scenario after the next I look back in hindsight to find that I’d survived. However miraculous that may be. Be that as it may, I wonder, then, why does it remain a surprise, the hand opens to release me back into my habitat. Another day. Yes, another day.
Movement
Angels In America
Angels In America
I've actually known Tim and Thor for several years. We have in our little town a small community of travelers. They may roam far and wide, sometimes for weeks at a time, but they'll always return to our little train track town and find minimal shelter in the space of time between journeys.
Tim is a native son of this little town. Just like his fellow travelers he has a story, a story that could be a novel. That story finds the souls that need to hear it, become a part of it, even help write it. How is his itinerary developed? I imagine much like my own story has flowed. A channel meandering through the landscape, sometimes free flowing, sometimes experiencing violent redesign using heavy and sharp machinery. That painful and breaking process producing the most astonishing upheaval, only to yield a new stronger and more sustainable path. Better than before. If we can just get to the other side.
It takes me a while to sit with an idea these days, before I concrete it into a structure in my mind. I started doing this after studying Michael Shermer's writing on the believing brain. This litmus test gives me some hope of knowing a theory has been tested against wishful thinking. This idea that I tend to see these 'angels' like Tim at a time when the universe seems to be driving home a point in conjunction with my current state of mind and life. The universe I believe introduces ideas to us, a knowing, a feeling when life gets critical enough for it to intervene. That ever so incredible moment when it climbs right into the skin of one of us, flowing freely through our bloodstream, coursing ever so boldly to our command center, the brain. We become a traveler, we become the hands of the universe, we, with our novels of life stories, we, with our souls so unmistakably at that critical moment. I wonder sometimes how well we recognize when we become Angels In America.
Full moon glorious she, arriving right on Spring equinox. The evenings serenaded by our Rana Catesbeiana frogs and mornings a chirping chorus of native songbirds. Morning sky of pink haze beat the cherry blossom trees to the punch as if to give a hint of what is to come. A warm fragrant air blows strong enough to tip the crow off his course and force him to bank into the wind. Sometimes he plays with it, enjoying being pushed around in the sky, seeing where the gusts take him. It is nesting season, soon there will be no time for play. The wind brings a message that a peace is coming and with it the resolution I have been seeking for so very long.
With a breath of finality
Blowing away old beliefs
Standing at the altar of ourselves
What does it mean
To get out of our own way?
Grace Constantine Porter
You were born in New York 9 years ago and raised by a loving silver haired elderly man and his wife for 7 years in a New York high rise. Your loving silver haired master died leaving you alone with his widow. You began to suffer greatly at the hands of her mental decline with dementia. So much damage happened before her children placed her in a home and took you to Brittany Rescue Society. The Rescue Society put you up for adoption three times and all three times you were taken back to the rescue society. The families said you couldn't love. They wanted a dog who could love. I called the Brittany Rescue Society looking for someone who could fill my heart left by the gaping hole of Hope's passing. I was certain no dog could hold a candle to her legacy. I adopted you and my heart sank. I felt like you couldn't love me. I almost took you back for the fourth time to the rescue society, but the next day a miracle happened. I began to notice you had an uncanny ability to sense changes in me and respond. You were cool, calm, collected and eerily smart. There was a deep magic to you that I was beginning to see. That night you decided to sleep next to me. I canceled my appointment with the rescue society. Over the months and years you formed a bond with me stronger than most human relationships. You were a trauma rescue. You taught me that time, love and patience were the only strategies for a trauma survivor, but once those bonds are made they are among the strongest in the world. People are drawn to you. I'll never forget the Christmas when we went down to Burnside's homeless camps to deliver our gifts and you curled up in the lap of the biggest, strongest, surliest resident at the camp and he held you until he cried. "I used to have myself a dog" he said. You make connections with so many. It's like they can see the light in you. I don't know if I deserve to be a steward of such an amazing animal, but I am forever grateful nonetheless. Happy Birthday my best friend. Please give me as many years as you can.
