Park Musings in a Memoir

Whenever I go downtown, I usually take pictures with a camera. This time is different. I am going to paint pictures with words. We'll see how this goes.
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It is a beautiful day; a slight breeze but not too cold. I sit on a wooden bench, obviously weathered and worn from much use. I approached the bench circumspectly. I needed to find the perfect spot you see because I didn't want it to be so crowded with people that I wouldn't be able to accurately describe it, but I also did want some people action. So, here I sit on the perfect bench on NW Davis and Park. My left leg is crossed over my right left, foot firmly planted on the ground. My stray hair blows in the breeze, tickling my face, sticking to my chap stick. "Do you have a cigarette?" I am distracted. "No," I reply firmly, almost disgusted that a man would assume that I had a cigarette and would give him one nonetheless. The pages in my notebook blow in the wind. I see a bird feather lying ten feet ahead of me on the other side of the walkway. It looks as though it has been picked up many a time and thrown back on the ground with dismay by a young child wondering why the feather couldn't do more things. Right now I feel like that feather: thrown-down by people who discover that I can't do more or who finally discover what I do and dislike it. The feather use to help some bird in flying; now it lies on the ground, torn. I'm sure I was like a feather before, feeling freedom by flying(or rather assisting one to fly). But now I, like this feather before me, am tossed away, deemed unuseful. It is an inanimate object, I know, but I can relate to that feather. I cannot relate to any person lately, it seems; but a feather: now that I can do. One such person I cannot relate to right now(it seems) is a man, shirtless, sitting across the green grass diagonal to me. He also sits on a worn bench very similar to mine. He has sunglasses atop his head; nothing to cover up his hairy chest and beer belly; dark blue sweat pants; and white tennis shoes. he now sits with his left hand on the bench, as if to prop him up; his other hand resting in his lap. he is not clean shaven. His legs now shake back and forth for no apparent reason. This is a mystery to me. He drinks light purple Gatorade, not beer as one might suspect. many of the people who occupy these benches are wither homeless, or artsy(which begs the question: which am I? I will discuss that later). A woman sits down in the bench next to his and strikes up a polite conversation. He smiles and chuckles a bit. He has a good smile. the woman sits uncomfortably with both hands on her knees out in front of her, anticipating something. the man retrieves something from his pocket and fiddles around with it. She gets up and introduces herslef and they shake hands. She resumes her position, as if she is subjected there. I wonder why the man is there: he could be homeless or he could just be enjoying a wonderful day in the park, as I am. Some things about the man make me think he is indeed homeless; but I hate to be so quick to judge. As people walk by him, he stares them up and down and observes them. With just a few glances, he seems to know who people really are: it seems to me that he can see through epople into their hearts: their true essence. The woman has moved closer to him and they talk more in depth. i can hear snippits(sounds bites really) of his voice: it is surprisingly upbeat. She shows her farmer's tan:ironic. He's not even wearing a shirt. She says goodbye and walks away. I wonder at her story too. I also wonder if he knows my true essence and knows me by the few glances he's had of me. I wonder if he knows why I'm sitting on this bench(refer to my previous observation *homeless or artsy0. Am i homeless? Or am I artsy? I can't stand to be at home now: I needed to escape(perhaps voluntary temporary homelessness?). Or maybe I am here to write and muse over my artistic ideas: this park bench being the perfect place to do so? Or, maybe it is a combination of both. I wonder if he knows; and if he does, I wish he would tell me because I don't know.
.....
I hear rustling of tree leaves and a train horn harbingering its imminent arrival. these are soothing sounds to me. They flow together, almost creating a song. It keeps the rhythm too. The song and rhythm of downtown I love. I could spend every day here: heck! I could live here!
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I see more couples walking the streets now. I am alone(...but with my pen and notebook though). I again look at the feather *leaves rustle, *horn blares, * woman laughs, *car swoosh, *bicycles tick, *footsteps. it's beautiful music, it really is. Although I'm alone, I don't feel alone. the city embraces me. Dare I hug back? What if it rejects me later on?(my fear of rejection). Although, I must point out that I do have somewhat of a crush on Portland. It's irresistible, it really is. I hear whistling; the sun is disappearing. What a treasure this place is. How in the world could this place embrace me? Maybe for the same reason it accepts the homeless man diagonal to me, or the couple on my two o'clock. I don't know that reason though. I will now try to speculate as to the reason. Portland has a smattering of people who come from all over with different stories, all trying to fit in somewhere. Portland is their place. Bottom line: it accepts ALL. I think I would consider myself under the umbrella of "all". But there has to be something else, I'm sure. Everybody here seems so special and unique. And since I am here, does that deem me special and unique or maybe that everybody's special and unique? What a revelation! The city may be an inanimate object, but it taught me a lesson. Just like the feather. As the day slips from my grasp, the breeze gets colder. I am considering walking to my car and retrieving my sweater; then maybe walking to the waterfront. I think I've learned my lessons from this park bench and the feather and the man diagonal to me. I see drunk men swinging. That is entertaining. Maybe I will stay here just a bit longer. I will finish this page and then trek to my car. I'm ever so glad I came down here tonight and escaped from my regular life as I know it...or don't know it? I cease from my writing and look up: the man is gone.
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I told myself that I would leave at 10 p.m. that doesn't give me much time left. But no one knows what I told myself. Who listens to me anyway? I sure don't. The hell with what I say! As I left the park, I saw a black man in a green striped polo(with a cigarette tucked behind his ear). He was standing at a street corner. He caught my eye. "Why don't you smile?" I turned my head and smiled, but kept walking. "How are you doing tonight?" I turned around. "Good, I said, accompanied with yet another smile. "What're you up to tonight?" "nothing much," i responded. "Partying?" At this point I had stopped and he walked closer. "No. I'm too young to party." "really? How old are you?" "18." "Oh? You're pretty though. That's not too young to do the things you want like..." he rattled on. "Not legally, at least." He chuckled. "Do you smoke?" "Nope." "So you're good through and through, eh? And probably will always be that way?" "yeah." "Well, you deserve a hug right there for that." He gave me a hug. I needed it. Even though it was from a complete stranger(and not to mention the fact that it was given because i was "good"). I walked a couple blocks and a Jeep drove by with two guys in it, the passenger leaning out the window. I looked and smiled. He waved; I waved back. They stayed at the stop sign until I got closer. "How're you doing tonight? Look pretty." "good. You?" "Good. What you doing tonight? Just cruisin' around?" "yeah, Writing." "Oh. You go to school own here?" "nope." "hey, well, we were juts watching a preview for man on wire showing at cinema 21..." He handed me a flier. "meeting your friends down here tonight?" "no. I fly solo." "I see. Wanna burn one?" "I don't. But thanks." "Really?" "really. I'm "good"." "Oh, you're 'good'. I see. Well, have a good night. It was nice meeting you. What did you say your name was?" "Manda." "Manda?...Matt." We shook hands. "Nice to meet you. Have a great night, pretty lady." "buh-bye." Matt was a nice fellow. Green polo guy and Matt taught me something about myself: I don't compromise my beliefs(or change for anyone) as much as I think. I'm also apparently "good"; but good girls are just bad girls that don't get caught. I am sitting at the waterfront; no jacket needed actually. I am perfectly fine. I'm not hungry; thirsty; don't have to use the restroom; and am not cold. My only complaint: writer's cramp. I need a laptop. Nonetheless, I write on. It is peaceful here. The street lights scintillates and sparkles on the river. The tree leaves rustle. Bridges are mere shadows in the darkness, lit up only by car that whiz by. People are here to relax, exercise, stroll, have a romantic night much like the couple under the tree to my right. They are lovers making out in the park. I hear sirens in the distance nearing me. They pass on and cross the bridge; cars part for it. The lovers are gone. In their place there sits a lone girl, with a bicycle. She leans against the tree, looking tired and in despair. How ironic: a lonely, discouraged person currently occupies the place that lovers once claimed. I wonder as to why she's there. No home to go back to? Or maybe a stressful home situation? An escape perhaps? Just resting before she continues on home? I know not. But I noticed that we both are in the park alone: a common thread.
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I stretch my left hand's fingers that are stiff from writing. I wiggle them. with my able-bodied right hand, I check the clock: 10 p.m. But what does that mean to me? Nothing. I care not. I am apathetic. It's one of my weaknesses...or maybe strengths? I don't woo people or feel sorry for their being in a situation that they put themselves in. I am sympathetic and empathetic to people though too. I am the opposite(or extremes) of the spectrum...AT the SAME TIME! How can this be? I am simple: complex. Easy:difficult. Quiet: loud. Self-conscious: self-confident. Shy: outgoing. Nice: Mean. Independent: dependent. Respectful: rebellious. Determined: lacking self-will. Stayed: a voyeur. An open book: subtle. Trustworthy: sly. The list goes on and on. You get the main gist though, right? Sometimes even I don't understand myself. This time was a nice time to reflect and look inside myself to reveal what's really there...if anything is. The lone woman walks away, holding her bike with her right hand, rolling it beside her. She sits on a bench at the end of a line of benches. I look over and stretch my fingers once again. I love how I can see the shadow of my pen moving as I write; and the way it stays still as I am pondering as what to say next. It's like someone else is writing through me, possessing me and taking control of my hand and pen. Am i a different person when I write? I wonder. Does another side of my personality shine through when I'm writing? When I am writing. I imagine that I am everything I want to be. I have become the person I dream of being. I have a voice when I write. I have collective and organized thoughts. My dreams come true through my pen. I save the world through my pen. I change the world through my pen. I rule the world through my pen. (And I have plenty of time to do so: the park closes at 12. It's only 10:15. Yes, I still have plenty of time the save, change, and rule the world before I must needs go. That's good news). It is getting colder now. My jacket is almost in need, but not quite yet. I like to see how the lamp-posts' light reflects off my soft, smooth skin. It creates a golden color, a warm color. I haven't written this much in so long, I am happy for this time. My pen is steaming from being worked too hard and too fast. Before my world-saving pen bows up, I will resign myself from writing now. I will go back to my "normal" self; my thoughts will create a tornado like vortex in my head once again; I can be free no more until I pick up my pen once again(the key to unlocking my dungeon.) I cannot wait for this moment when I am able to reunite with my pen once again. Oh, how free I will be! I look up and stretch my fingers once again. The lonely girl is gone(....*and it's 10:22 p.m.)
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I thought I had resigned my pen for the night; but ti's not true. As I was walking down the street, the street lights created some awesome shadows: I looked up and there were two of me(two shadows of me rather). The further I would walk down that block, my shadows would merge into one; I would cross the intersection and again I would see two of me(one in the street; one on the sidewalk--opposite of the spectrum, if you will). And again, the shadows merged into one. Block after block after block. It was amazing to "see" the two side of me merge into one. I am one person....yet two.