Mornings

Mornings
December 2024 – Portland, OR

I have a love/hate relationship with mornings.  I’m not much of a morning person, and I have not really been one for much of my adult life.  There are a few reasons for that, beginning as a junior high kid, continuing through my time as a young adult in the US Army, and moving into slightly less young parts of adulting that saw me work a LOT of graveyard shifts.  For much of that time, mornings meant the start to the horrid idiocy of a teenaged school day, getting jolted out of bed in the Army (some days literally), or time to go to sleep after a long night of working while the rest of you all slept.

This love/hate relationship was not always the way it was though—especially as a younger child and in my early teens.  I LOVED mornings.  Mornings were a fresh start and the beginning of a new day, but also a blank slate to plan adventures to be had.  While the chaos of people rushing around to get ready was there, they were also filled with the people I loved—even if only briefly.

I have fond and enduring memories of my Dad up VERY early—around 5am—accompanied by the smells of his soap or shampoo, the sounds of the shower running, the wet comfort of the steam that billowed out of the bathroom, and how his razor made a clinking noise as he rinsed the hair off the blades in the sink. 

I remember being bundled into my parents Silver Nissan minivan (with the funny little fridge between the front seats!) and listening to the morning news on NPR as my mom made the trip to drop us at daycare and then headed off to work.

I have more fond memories of the sights, sounds, and smells of early mornings in my Grandparents home on Jeri Avenue.  My grandpa Paul would be seated in one of the ornately carved wood/wicker chairs at the smallish table, sipping some ice-cold orange juice.  I’ll never forget the smell as he ate simple slices of buttered toast and listened to the Farm Report with Bob Burtenshaw as he read the Post Register in the pre-dawn quiet.   
I could have stayed and stared at this scene for an hour.

More fond memories of mornings—those treasured equally with others mentioned here—are several with my mom. There is one that stands out particularly boldly:

One is of a morning that saw us standing in the front yard of the Orlinda House, watering the yard, especially her white Shasta Daisy plants on the front of the house. It was a brilliantly sunny summer morning, cool but starting to warm quickly as summer days so often did. We sheltered from the growing heat of the summer sun in the shade created by the side of the garage. After a thorough drenching , the still shaded yard was damp, cool, and lush. I can still remember the water dripping off of the buds and branches of the crab apple tree and full blooms of the Daisy plants, and how cool that made the yard feel in concert with the shade and soft grass under my feet.

Guilt

Guilt
Portland, OR – May 2024

As I have grown older, there have been a few things in my life that have left me feeling guilty.  Some of those have faded, some aren’t rational, and some are yet to be dealt with.  One thing that has cropped up more and more of late is the guilt I feel for moving out of my hometown and away—both literally and figuratively–from a lot of the people and institutions that helped create me. 

These feelings have been casual wonderings of “what if” for the most part—but have come up more frequently and more acutely of late– especially as my grandparents have both passed on and parents have continued to grow older.  I am mostly happy with the life I have built for myself outside Idaho Falls and away from much of what I knew as I grew up, however some questions and doubts linger. 

What kind of person would I be today if I had stayed in Idaho Falls instead of moving to Utah after the Military—conservative leaning or rather left of center like I am now?

Would I have stayed in policing?  What would I have done for work if not?

Would I be as open to or accepting of varying alternative lifestyles, the people practicing them, or ethical non-monogamy as I am today?   What would my education or involvement pertaining to them look like?

What kind(s) of hobbies would I have developed?  Would I have continued to enjoy them as long or to the degree that I have with my present set of hobbies?

Would I have learned what Burning Man is or have even been to a burn event (let alone racked up over a decade of experience helping to produce or protect them)?

How would my grandmother’s end of life have been different if I was closer to care for her as her Cancer worsened?

How would my Grandpa’s end of life have been different if I was there to help care for him?

I guess it’s kind of like a few lines from Massive Ego’s song “Let go”:
“Let go, let go of what you should have done
Should have said, should have worn, should have read
Let go, Let go…”

I am fame. Do a worship!

One night in Mid-August, bored and not wanting to sleep, I posted 3 photos on a Reddit sub.
I shot the photos in question on a trip I took to an abandoned record store in late 2022. Several days later, I got contacted by Jack Beresford, a reporter from Newsweek asking if I’d be willing to do an interview about my travels and photography surrounding urban exploring.

I accepted the invite after a bit of Google sleuthing to ensure the party claiming to be Beresford was indeed a reporter. (He is indeed a legit reporter from Newsweek). We chatted for about 45 minutes over my lunch hour one afternoon the following week. I sent hi-res copies of the 3 photos I’d posted to Reddit and signed the requisite releases. Beresford promised to let me know where the article would be posted before it went live, and I went back to work.

I heard nothing from him for about a week and kind of forgot about it, given work and other ongoing life events. I mentioned this to some friends and family, and in passing while killing time in the break room at work, and thought no more. About a week later, I ran into the break room to grab some ice water. A Co-worker I had not met before struck up the following conversation:

CoW: “Hey we read about you online”.
Me: “My lawyer said I shouldn’t say anything else about Tijuana until at least 2027”.
CoW: “Huh?”
Me: “What did you read?”
CoW “Seems you get around some weird places and got famous for it”.

As I stood there momentarily bewildered, me Co-Worker thrust their cell phone into view, where I was greeted by my photos on newsweek.com.

Seems Mr reporter forgot to ping me and let me know that the article was going live….

This was 2 weeks after I was notified that I’d also received IMDb credit for an appearance in a short documentary about the temporary street art that spawned all over the core of Downtown Portland in the midst of the George Floyd protests over the summer of 2020.

I’m special now!

Recycled

Recycled writing
Portland OR – August 2024

I’ve always loved storytelling—orally, written, or through mixed media like audio and/or video recordings.  I started writing LONG ago in the form of private letters and journals—some lost to time, others kept in sacred spaces within my home or the things I carry on me each day.

The longest period that I have consistently written started when I created the Nurse Ratched blog back in 2010.  I wrote that almost every week, and continued almost consistently until August 2015, with a few more spurts lasting into 2019. I started that blog to serve as a combination of daily(ish) journal and therapeutic outlet while I worked as a live-in nurse.  A great deal of the content generated from that period reflects contemporary events in my personal and professional life; some pieces are dated indications of old attitudes or ways of thinking. 

Obviously, a great deal of time has passed since then, but there are a few pieces of writing I’d like to share from that time period.  I’ll clean these up a bit to try and cut the amount of WHARRGARBL and fix spelling or grammatical errors, but only just.  There are post-scripts or updates on a few of the topics/instances covered, and I’ll add those where appropriate.

I aim to regularly mix in NEW writing too–once a week or more (depending on the myraid of variables that can derail life and plans in our modern hellscape). The writing/posts will fall into one of 5 categories:

Adventures big and small
Photos and stories from wandering to and through various travel and events.

Chapters from a past life
Stories from work and volunteering in healthcare, policing, security, and other occupational misadventures.

Urban Exploration
Photos, Stories, Travelogues, and information about my adventures in Urban Exploration.

Photography
Photos, silly cell phone snaps, and general information concerning photography or photo equipment.

Random writing & silly stories
One offs and other things that do not fit in any of the above categories

Enjoy!

Saturday

It’s a cool, quiet Saturday. After 5 days of being baked by early summer heat in the mid to high 80’s, the city is blanketed in low clouds and a refreshingly cold, misty rain. It’s well after dark now, and the rain still floats down and kisses the concrete and glass in the gritty city center.

I step out into the mist and take a seat on the patio. The waiter appears and I ask for the usual: Bourbon and a splash of Coke. My drink arrives accompanied by a freshly cut cigar, compliments of the house and a barman who, perhaps, knows me too well. The city is quiet, save for the odd passing automobile, and the silence on the patio is a welcome break from the omnipresent urban chaos.

I savor the first sip of a beautifully stiff drink and the bourbon’s woody flavor caresses my mouth. I light the cigar and let my mind wander as the band’s jazz music spills over from inside the dimly lit bar. I take another sip of my drink, swallow, and put the cigar to my lips and inhale. I roll the smoke around, caressing my tongue, and then exhale a billowing cloud. I watch the smoke waft away into the night, and think.

I want you. I want you here, now, next to me. Better yet, I want you at my feet.

I want to see that smile and the saucy look on your face that all those dames aspiring to be starlets imitate. I want to see you in that dress that makes your curves stand out like stars in the hills. I want to feel your skin in my hand as I take you by the neck and guide you where to sit between my feet. I want to feel your hair flow between my fingers as I blush it aside, and then gently tug on it, ever so subtly forcing you to expose your neck and shoulder. I want to hear you sigh and see you flinch as I blow smoke on your skin.

A prowl car screeches down the avenue, red light ablaze and siren piercing the silence. Adrenaline momentarily floods my brain; I wonder if they know me and have questions of the judicial variety about that pachuco and the incident with a razor back in ’43. Jerked back to reality, I wait for the coppers to disappear while I take a wallop of a drink to take the edge off, and let my mind wander off again.

Decidedly ungentlemanly thoughts invade my brain and make hair stand on end. I have thoughts of taking that same razor and slipping it across your delicate flesh ever so carefully, as I whisper quiet words of caution in your ear.  A more malevolent part of me wants to see you tremble as the blade springs forth and then feel your shuddering as I take you by the neck and touch the razor’s finely sharpened steel to more delicate parts of your body.

I take another puff on the now barely lit cigar, swirl more smoke around in my mouth, and release another cloud. I take a smoky sip of Bourbon and wonder… I wonder if a classy dame like you use that precious mouth and those luscious, lusty lips to keep this cigar lit for me?

The barman appears at the door with news of closing time. I offer him a sawbuck to go away for a while and leave me to my thoughts. No dice, he replies–the boss wants every swingin’ dick in the place gone for a private meet. I know better than to stick my nose into business. I take one final belt on the bourbon, flip the cigar into traffic, and head out into the mist, lost in my thoughts.

Somewhere in the East

This place — this dimly lit place in a bohemian city district.  Its’ bones of old wood are plainly visible; Well kept and cared for wood gives rise to creaky floors.  Its walls are bedecked in dusty art, and columns stand guard at the entry way to the living room.  One can almost see students and workers as they sit around the big, old table plotting revolution late into the night.

Slowly rising puffs of flavored cigarettes and pipe tobacco flavor the air with a thousand scents of the old and new worlds alike.   Jazz seeps under a door and down the hall as the humidity of a warm summer night seeps through the windows.  The combination betrays the modest setting and imbues the evening with a perfectly sultry feel.

Beautiful though it was, we’ve just finished busting it up.  Since rousting Uncle Joe’s flunkies and cracking the heads thereof is no longer fashionable with Parker Center, the boss got a hot tip and a decent rate for us to stand in for the Red Squad.  Done with my civic duty, I copped a flask of Bar&Tender from the commies fridge and hit the bricks.  I have it on good authority that smooth bourbon is always a good thing to have on hand or in the body.

I shucked off my jacket and wore out out a bit of shoe leather, strolling down a city street in the warm summer evening in search of a place to sit and collect my thoughts.  A handful of blocks and a bit more shoe leather later, I spied a lush green park with a perfectly shaded picnic table.  I slid on to one of the table’s seats, fished a notepad and pen from my shirt, and began to pour thoughts of a Dame I’d met out on the paper.  Before too long, the sun had disappeared and my notepad was half full.

There, in my scrawling script, appeared the following words:

I know one thing tonight…. It’s that I want you here.

I want to wrap my arms around you as far as I can and cradle you in them.
I want to pull you as close as I can and never let go.
I want to pull you into me and feel the weight of your body against mine.
I want to snake my fingers through your hair and tug gently as we embrace.
I want to put a hand on the nape of your neck and guide you.
I want to put a hand on your throat and gently squeeze.

I want to care for and about you, dote on you, worry over you, and spoil you.
I want to spend a thousand irreplaceable moments together with you.
I want to love you with the full and unrestrained measure of my heart and an intensity that may be best described as wanton, reckless abandon or passionate, benevolent fury.

I want you to love me just as hard too.

Purpose

A few years ago someone asked me what my purpose in life was.

Who knows how to answer that?  I don’t think that very many people could form a coherent answer to that question in a short amount of time at all–unless you want some HR or corporate mission statement level bullshit.

If you would have asked me this in high school or shortly after, I’d have said something smart assed like “fuck if I know” or maybe “be a cop”.  Life has a way of fleshing out the details, and 20 years later, I still don’t 100% know.  Smartass (2016ish) me initially thought “well, it’s something about enemies driven and lamentation of women”.

After some thought (of the serious kind), I think, that my purpose is to make a fucking difference for the better in the lives of my fellow meatsack wearing pale blue dot dwellers.

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To bring order to the chaos. To bring comfort to pain. To go toward the problem and not shrink from it. To use the privileges, gifts, talents, random experience and fabulous education I inherited or pursued for the better.

At least that’s the best way I can think of to tell you what I know, what I like, and what I am allegedly good at.

The View

Winter in the high desert. Cold. Dry. Windy.

I’ve left the city behind and decamped to the suburbs for a holiday party. It’s that time of year when half the world gets chummy with coworkers for the evening and pretends to care about the lives of others because they’re also involved in getting a check from the boss. We’re a bunch of hard cases and a collection of saucy broads of questionable virtue shacked up in a house in the hills, sipping cocktails, swilling wine, and shooting whisky like Dragna with a tommy gun.

I step out of the din onto the balcony for some air. The house is set half way up the hills overlooking the valley; the balcony floats atop a run of stout timbers and juts out into space, just over the edge of the hillside. You can see everything from up here, just like a hawk waiting to swoop down from the sky or a cat waiting to spring out from the shadows. It looks like every light in every home and on every car in the valley is lit all at once. I can make out downtown, busy streets, and the new freeway line job. Fanciful types might say it’s as if there are a billion eyes of all different colors looking up at me and twinkling.

It’s frigid out here, in the 30s maybe. The cold air is sharp, just like that razor Frank keeps in his back pocket. The gentle breeze steals my breath for a moment, and makes my eyes water. It’s quiet out here too. Still as glass even. The usual city noise is all but gone–no screeching horns, wailing sirens, motor noises or the rest of the normal auditory assaults of daily life. Up here it’s all faded out, like water rushing softly down a creek. The occasional snippet of noise floats up on the breeze, but is gone just as quick.

I swear It’s quiet enough that I can actually hear myself think. I’m pretty certain that I can hear my gun leather squeak as the holster in my belt rubs the cold steel of pop’s trusty old .45. It’s strange. It’s refreshing too, and let my mind wander after a belt of Cutty. My mind turns to a saucy dame I met in the kitchen of a clubhouse in the west valley. She was short, dark haired, gently curved in all the right places, and decorated with more tattoos than quite a few of the sailors I’ve tangled with over the years.

That broad also had a mouth on her that’d make any dull man blush. Whip smart and gifted with a vocabulary that made sea captains proud, she boasted a taste for good cigars and better scotch, and enjoyed both with the boys any chance she got. We spent a few fall nights together enjoying the pleasures of each other’s company—and pleasure it was. A given evening might’ve found us stalking quality dives downtown, enjoying varying libertine adventures about the southland, or embarked on a tour of questionable joints all over Hollywood.

We parted ways suddenly one morning. A note appeared under my pillow, in her delicate script, informing me that she was going to Malibu to work on her health, and would contact me upon her return. I wondered where she was that chilly evening, what he was doing, if she was alone, how her health had progressed. Less gentlemanly parts of my head mulled visions of our next sojourn in a Cigar lounge, scotch session, and how her skin moves under my hands.

It was then I realized I’d nearly chewed a hole in my cheek. Seems memories and Scotch are dangerous.

The nights

As corny and emo as it sounds, I love the night. While there are great practical arguments such as decreased traffic, cooler temperatures, and better entertainment options those haven’t really mattered that much to me or my preferences. Those things are great, however the visceral horrors of the night and contrasts between day and night it presents have always held my attention.

To me, A good night is equal parts sultry and malevolent. It’s a fluid timeline played out on a dark, blank canvas we use to paint a picture that is full of endless possibility and looming, brooding menace–all at once. While specifics are legion and details readily changeable, a good night involves plentiful feelings and images of sexy and dangerous all at once.

A good night calls you out of your home with promises of bright lights, new faces, untold adventures, and exotic places. That same good night also makes subtle threats to you: Alien landscapes, mischief and its’ makers, bright lights that end in a blanket of darkness, deserted urban landscapes, strange characters with unclear intents, and stifling, smothering quiet punctuated by noises big and small.

Speaking of noise, take a listen to this bit of wonderfully saucy jazz noir and this entire album of dark jazz, featuring some background noise from the Berlin (Germany) city morgue!

Hit List, Redux

Back in November I posted a list of things I wanted to do this year as life started to inch toward normal. We’re getting there–albeit slower than I want–and I wanted to revisit my list and review what I’ve got done, what I still want to do, and the new stuff.

Things I’ve done
Survive the plague (So far any way)
Move out of the suburban wastes and back into Portland
Continue my quest to have an Old Fashioned at every bar/pub I visit–especially the dives
Visited a handful of independent bookstores
Wandered to/through Silverton and Mt Angel

Things I still want to do

Check out the following pubs/bars/dives and grab an old fashioned
—“The Rose City Book Pub” at 1329 NE Fremont
—“The Library” at 3433 SE Hawthorne
—“The Basement lounge” at 1024 SE SE 12th st
—“The Conquistador” (or whatever their name is now) on Belmont
—“Coffin Club” (used to be Lovecraft)

Explore the Distillery Row area of NW and go for a tasting at some of local distillers

Catch up/hang out some more with other Utah escapees

Travel and do more touristy stuff
–Take a trip to the coast that does not involve work
–Go to Bend for a night or even a weekend
–Drop in to “Title Wave Books” at 216 NE Knott St
–Go soak at Kennedy School, then have a cigar in the Detention Lounge
–Go to the outdoor/night market in the Produce Row/Mural District area
–Do Dinner/Drinks at “Saphire Hotel” on 50th @ Hawthorne
–Check out Mcminville’s ‘downtown’

The new stuff

–Find a job that lets me have a life and isn’t burning me out on the daily
–Check out “Raven’s Manor” at 235 SW 1st Ave
–More urbex and photography
–Munches
–Go to the Mock’s Crest unofficial park
–Grab a drink at the Revolution Hall rooftop bar
–Cavort w/ good humans & stellar weirdos I know + love, but also more/new weirdos!
–Host an event when it’s safe–a mixer or social or small brunch
–Ride the Ebike more and more
–Visit Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden

Now GO GET VACCINATED!