It occasionally bewilders me just how spatially oblivious I am these days. I tend to think of Portland as a large town with no geographical relationship to the rest of the continent.
Every once in a while, though, it will suddenly hit me that I live in Oregon, a state I was barely conscious of before moving out here, perched atop the most culturally and economically significant state in The Union — yet scores away from any of the cities that have earned it this title.
At this point the realization will come over me that I have lived about 98 or so percent of the past two years less than 90 miles from the Pacific Ocean, and about the same distance from the sort of Mountains whose existence I honestly find dubious. How the fuck did that happen?
I can intellectualize that my orientation is on the West Coast, but I can’t really internalize it — not the way I could in North Georgia. I think this has a lot to do with my being largely distracted when I moved here, and my present lack of automobile.
These are the last pictures I’ll post for a while, I promise. I took these way back in October, when Fall was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. Unfortunately, it got rainy right after I finished the roll, and Fall became the most compelling reason to never leave the apartment that had ever happened to me. So I didn’t get them developed until last weekend, when it started being nice again.
Anyway — Fall in Portland. Here we go.
The MAX Station on my street.
N. Omaha Avenue.
N. Willamette Blvd.
The West Hills from my side of The River.
The slope from N. Willamette down to The River.
That’s it for this week. No music cause YouTube’s down.
Oh, and Ms. McDaniel? You should call me sometime. I haven’t talked to you since Christmas.