On the train to Portland I sat with my arms crossed, staring out at trees and water and fog, listening to music that reminded me of every painful fact of my life. As the train passed Olympia the misery mix tape switched to something I remember hearing when I lived there and I started to cry, real human tears sliding silently down my face in anticipation.
Portland is the place where I found a community, learned to sing, opened myself up to loving people who might not love me back. The place is haunted with history and since moving away four years ago I have stayed in town for perhaps six days total. The intense longing I feel to be with my friends is never enough to pull me back; it is just too painful to know that I do not live there.
I remained in a state of intense sorrow until the first sight of the St. John bridge, when the day itself turned golden with sunshine and Marisa texted that she would meet me at the train station.
The weather held as Marisa drove me to the bank to deposit the book advance I’d been carrying around with me throughout the trip (under pressure from my agent I finally have a bank account – too bad it is in the wrong country!). We stopped on Alberta to eat a burrito and then headed to the old neighborhood.
It would be impossible to exaggerate the state of shock I feel walking down the streets of the place I used to live. When I moved into my derelict house ten years ago the street was a crack corridor. The nearby commercial district was boarded up. Now the whole place has been reinvented as… fancy. There are still outposts of the old ways – lots of the punk kids bought their houses a long time ago – but there are also cocktail bars and dog boutiques. There is very little left that I recognize.
Wandering around showing me the places where celebrities have cut records or purchased buildings we kept running across friends: Stevie Ann popped out of a cafe, Dwayne was on the hill, everyone was familiar or recognizable down to one of the kids from the Gossip standing on the corner. Marisa laughed and said It’s like fucking Sesame Street around here these days.
We retreated to the relative safety of the Chicken House, where I said hello to Jim and Ben and hung out in Marisa’s room listening to a recording of one of the bands she plays in.
We met EB and Jody, had drinks at the Wonder Ballroom, and sat around talking for awhile before it was time to go to the Scorpio Party at the 19th Street House.
I threw my gear into the nook where I sleep, changed hurriedly in a closet, and descended to join the raucous scene spilling through the house. What can I say? I love these people so much and wish I could burrow back into their lives; instead I make do with their erratic embraces. It was intensely wonderful to see everyone.
Stevie Ann, Anna Ruby, and Erin Scarum were spotted first. Talking to Maki I realized that she knows Byron Number One. I ran across STS in the basement. Erin Yanke rounded a corner and was extremely surprised to find me in the hallway.
It isn’t really a party without some kind of trouble and I had some firmly in mind before I even arrived. I was very brave and only a little bit transgressive and then Stevie dragged me on to the dance floor and a series of smoking hot girls tried to make me dance.
They did not succeed but I took up a position in the corner to watch the scene. Bob came by and said intensely sweet things to me; another girl decided to hold my hand and stare into my eyes for a good long time.
Somewhere in the middle of the night I found myself in Stevie’s bedroom talking to Beth about my undergarments. I’ve had a lot of conversations about underwear lately. Odd since my clothing hasn’t changed; more evidence that something has gone haywire with the defense systems.
The party was still hopping at four when an end was declared. Some bike punks from elsewhere refused to leave, one muttering that he wasn’t a zoo bomber before shouting at his comrades to meet at Eleventh and Skidmore.
They all started to chant the street names as they wheeled around, obstructing traffic and not departing. Several of us stared them down and they finally zipped away, except for one who had a flat and said he needed a ride. To Eleventh and Skidmore? We laughed derisively and went back inside.
I woke up late knowing that it was time to leave. But instead I called and changed my ticket, then stumbled around with housemates in various states of hangover and exhaustion (or in my case homesickness for the place I was standing) until Erin turned up and decided we should go to breakfast.
Back at the house again we all slumped on couches in front of a wood fire, idly talking. Jake from the circus in Santa Fe showed up and I felt so calm sitting wedged between Stevie and Anna Ruby I drifted asleep.
People napped or read or wandered around. I went for a walk intending to visit Gabriel and my house but only made it as far as MLK before I got distracted and turned back. I bought a cup of hot chocolate at a cafe, some water at the co-op, and bumped into Stevie on her way to pick up food.
We ate fish tacos and chattered away about everything that has happened since our last visit. Then Stevie asked So what new scandals has Bee Lavender been causing?
I tried the Who, me? answer but she just stared at me until I put both hands across my face and mumbled I haven’t done anything wrong…. and Stevie laughed and laughed.
Ana Helena (last seen in Barcelona, not the Ana from the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks) spotted us walking around the neighborhood and stopped her truck, grabbing Stevie to run off to band practice.
I sat around 19th Street talking to Anna Ruby about life and love and then wandered over to the Palace to hang out with Erin Scarum. Stevie, Marisa, and Jody arrived over the course of the evening and we spent hours trying to figure out what to do other than sit around another living room.
Seattle people started to text in a flurry when they noticed my absence: Jeff knows me best and predicted when I left that I might not return. He told me tales of drinking absinthe, dancing with Ade, and a party that ended with blood on the walls. Mark said he missed me.
One of the Bus Stop crew realized he might not see me again. I said Portland people adore me.
He texted back We all adore you.
I said Not equally.
He shot back No, we love you more.
That is probably not accurate. Though the people who have met me this year certainly know more about me than those I’ve known for years. When I started to tell secrets… everything changed.
There are pictures of the Mudwrestling Hoedown on the wall at the Palace; I made the chorus songbook for that event and there I am in the photographs, singing with my friends. I was wearing the orange dress that shows up in my passport photo, when I decided to leave town forever a few months later. Staring at the images of my muddy beautiful friends I do not wish that I could go back; I just wish I could have understood everything better at the time.
Somewhere near midnight Bob turned up and sat with us at the table, playing solitaire and catching up. I asked if there was anything fun happening to round out my visit and of course there was a show.
Stevie and Bob and I walked over to borrow a truck and set off, remembering as we drove that the three of us share the legacy of barely surviving horrific accidents. We talked about the consequences of that – and how it makes us different from our peers, who can blithely go on tour in ramshackle vans while we twitch about seatbelts and fret about who is driving.
At the show I kept my place at the front, hands in pockets, laughing as the lead singer of Ape Shape yelled at us to dance or get the fuck out. But with Ana singing and the thump of the music even I was compelled to hop around for most of the set, only moving over to the wall and leaning against Stevie toward the end. Then Stevie joined the band for the finale and it was time to leave.
In the yard I ran across several people who also moved away long ago, hugged Ana and promised to see her this spring in Spain, then walked away toward an uneasy sleep at three in the morning, worried that I might miss my train at eight.
In other words, the days unfurled along the purest of Portland lines – like that kid said so long ago at my Travelers Party, it is a punk rock retirement community. It is where I feel safe and also completely vulnerable.
Nothing and everything happens there and the place is dear to me despite my protests that I do not like the way time and emotions are distorted in a twenty block zone of a Northwestern city. If I had a home, it would be Portland.