The view from five stories up

Friday night.

Actually, Saturday morning.

Thirty degrees outside. Shredded clouds tease the eye with glimpses of crystal stars - odd for being in the middle of a town.

Nestled in the window seat. Fresh, cool air flows in through an inch-wide opening, traffic sounds, the occasional voice from below, raised in celebration of a Friday night.

Actually, Saturday morning.

A mug of green tea marks the end of an eventful and routine day. I had interesting lessons to teach to interesting people - and no one came to my workshop on Parental Controls. Shared a pizza with a friend, obliged by her dog to scratch his muzzle while trying to watch Keith and Rachel.

I see people walking by on the sidewalk across the street, collars pulled up against the wind that blows between the buildings. I smell snow in the air but the weather forecast calls for continued clear skies.

There should be more snow on the ground, we should feel more immediate drama from Nature at this time of year. One week of clear weather doesn't make a climate - but it does seem odd to have it be so enjoyable - well, relatively so, anyway.

During the day I am high enough to watch seagulls fly by below me - I watch them from an overhead viewpoint, soaring between these buildings. Fascinating.

I do not plan on dreams - but perhaps tonight they will come. Perhaps this is one now.

So, what the hell WAS I doing last night?

It all started with the picture on the left.

No, 'lemme 'splain ...

All I was doing was coming home from helping a friend out in the early part of the evening. Sometimes a crisis or issue arises and you just get up and go.

So, with all that settled and a plate of cookies in my pocket - courtesy of a friend's two year old - and my car parked in the garage I was headed home to continue the seeming-endless job of unpacking and editing my poor life.

This took my by Geno's - my favorite brick and beer rock-and-roll bar. Big Bob the Bouncer was smoking by a sandwich board - "Love On the Run - A Valentine's Burlesque".

There is a lively - if rather basic - scene of "burlesque nouveaux" here in Little Paris By Casco Bay. I've been to some small productions held in various garages and on various street corners around the town - the Gothic sideshow and Excuse-Me Sir-cus are also attached - if not by the hip, then with lashings of imagination.

I admit it - I like looking at women who enjoy being naked - and, frankly, at anyone, male or female, who flat out knows that everyone is having a good time.

If someone does not like being naked it shows - pardon the expression.

Big Bob is persuasive - that's probably why he went into bouncing in the first place.

I bounced on in - and was aghast at how large the crowd was already. More importantly, no seats were free at the bar. Fortunately I found a free wooden barstool under the jukebox (the "iMusic" box, god help us...) and pulled it up.

The show was obnoxious and loud. Mostly the plot - with fewer threads than most of the girl's costumes - concerned two madams on the run from the law. This was conveyed through vignettes, mostly based on country (no pun intended - Shakespearean or otherwise) songs that served as motivations for the girls to get their kit off.

It was in the middle of all this madness that I was accosted by an old friend - BG - a dancer who had taught with me back in the early days in Cumberland. She's an accomplished modern dancer and a whiz with special-needs kids. She also helped glue-gun roses to one of the costumes and I know she did a great job doing it because those roses stayed on the costume when it hit the floor of the stage.

And it hit damned hard, too.

So it went. Since her friend was dancing in the "finale" - which was a thinly veiled (get it?) rip-off (get it?) of the cornfield (really get it?) joke-fest from the old "Hee Haw" show we had to stay for the evening.

I admit that what I could see from my vantage point by the bar - and behind the crowd - was hard to make out, except for one song - to the tune of "Dueling Banjos" - that started right ON the bar - which is when I took the pic above.

It made for a great, if tiring, evening and I'm actually glad I stayed to watch.

It was also fun to catch up with BG - she's a talkative, likeable person in a very difficult professional educational field. When the show was done I offered to walk her back across the entire West End to her flat as it was after 1:15 in the morning and not only was it the gentlemanly thing to do it was fun to see what that end of town was like so late in the evening.

Once BG was safely indoors I could turn my full attention to the incredible sound of the West End late in the night - after 1:30. It's not quiet, not in the least. As your hearing attunes you can hear motors going by on the freeway that borders Deering's Oaks. The longer you listen the more your ears adjust, the way eyes adjust to the dark.

Motors become cars and trucks, then station wagons, sports cars, 18-wheelers and bread trucks. Amazing.

I crossed the playground of the school where my friend W. teaches - swings gently, if disturbingly, twisted in the slight breeze. A tree caught the light behind the iron fence.

Lights plainly showing a bulkhead lying slightly ajar. Brightly lit but still a reminder of how late, how alone you are - anything - ANYthing could come out of that crooked bulkhead door.

AnyTHING.

It can reliably be said that I always see things this way - it's the effect of having read so much H.P, Lovecraft as an adolescent.

The temperature was bearable. Keeping at a brisk pace helped, I wrapped my pashmina tighter about me, pulled my hat down closer over my overworked head.

At the end of one stretch was a Cumberland Farms store, gas tanks pumping away, people inside buying large cases of beer in advance of the bar shut-down coming in a very few minutes - and all the stores would stop selling as well too.

Finally I turned the corner at the Cumby's and there was Longfellow Square, glowing bright orange and red in the distance.

I think they're starting to take the lights down now. The artist is of the opinion that such displays should be both public and temporary - we enjoy them for a season and then they go away.

Other art, other installations take their place, but this - this is a One Time Only deal, something that only exists for the one who are lucky enough to see it.

And so it went last night.

I feel lucky to have run into a Scotch, a stage full of (eventually) naked ladies, an old friend, good conversation, zany theatrics, naked ladies (did I already mention them) and all topped of with a walk both sinister and lovely.

I say "sinister" though there really was no more risk that we ever take when walking at such a time and in such place. But also sinister because you could imagine - or even actually feel - the age of the city around you, age that had nothing to do with the bricks, mortar and Mansard roofs of the houses.

No, there was a magic out that night. What it was I think I'll go mad over, if I ever totally see it.

It was all very lovely and very strange at the same time

The lights in Longfellow Square are part of it. I know the were not part of the experience of the City but there it is, called in to being as if by single sorcery, one person setting the trees alight to entertain the statue of Mr. Longfellow.

I suspect the statue gets up to talk at some times.

I wish I could be there to see. I cannot seem to stop the train, no matter how fast I try.

Maybe if I don't think about it - or go at it sideways - I might get it across.

We shall see.

Under't to Above't while in't

Well.

Well, well, well.

Welcome to my new abode.

Five stories above Congress Street, a rent check for $50 more but saving $70 in the process.

I think Sebastian is completely sold on being the Lord High Kitty of Congress Street, surveying the passing multitudes, free from the distractions of mice or excessive cigarette smoke.

We're now ensconced here at 645 Congress Street. This building started life as a hotel, fell into disuse and was, most recently, used by the University of Southern Maine as an intown dormitory.

From all reports (some of them from my colleagues at the Orchard) this place was pathetically thrashed - fist holes in the walls, butt prints on the ceilings. It wasn't that students (well, most students) wouldn't tear-ass around in any dorm - it was that the University just didn't seem to care all that much, refusing to put the resources into the space to make it worth respecting.

Sadly,I think some things come too easily.

Still, my dear friend E. has been pointing this place out to me throughout its construction. She's been consulting with the builders and owners about how to make it attractive for contemporary intown folks - strange to think that includes me.

The building has one apartment reserved as a meeting/community room - it can also be rented as a guest-room extempore' - if one has company, it can be rented.

E. also insisted on a large bike room, very secure but accessible to the street by electronic key card.

Moving in - most of moving in - was accomplished in three trips. I have to thank my friends the W's, who live just around the corner. They - along with E.H's huge pickup truck - made it easy.

I think I was much better packed this time than the last - there was much less of a panicked air to the process. The last time I had to get rid of 27 trash bags of useless things, dropped off all over the peninsula in the middle of a raging snowstorm.

This time a lot of things went to Goodwill, some to the recycling bins - much neater. The remainder took place over the next 5 days, smooth as catgut.

So now I've actually had a couple of mornings where I could sit in the window seat, a cup of coffee in my hand, Sebastian in my lap, watching the light change on Peak's Island, the traffic build on Congress Street.

Now that WiFi is up it's going to be really perfect.

My first loads of laundry are finishing up - I still don't know where I'm going to put it all now that it's not crammed into trash bags for the quick trip around the corner from my old place.

Still, it's a nice problem to have - and now that I actually have two whole days off in a row - a row! - I might be able to get things done and online.

So now I have a full-time job at the Orchard, a new place where I actually save money while writing a bigger check and a score to write for a play.

Not a bad place to start in the middle of.

Something in the Wind

This picture is already irrelevant.

The tree is gone. Our Lady of VIctories now graces an irregular pyramid of snow. Fairy lights adorn the trees in Monument Square.

Up here in the Market House I'm drinking a SanPellegrino Pear Nectar and munching cashews.

We are in Winter for fair now. Several aggressive snowstorms, several cold nights of blistering ocean winds have all begun to toughen up the city.

There have been nights of late where I've walked downtown - for many reasons, most having to do with being outside to feel the bite of Nature after having been warm and comfortable in the Orchard all day.

There is a chance I will move to new diggings, just around the corner on Doctor's Row. Originally a Best Western Downtown Inn, then vacant, then a dorm for USM - now developed into surprisingly nice apartments.

If it goes well I may actually be saving money by moving to a brand new apartment. My criteria have always been based on feelings of what kind of work, what kind of music or ideas I could create.

The inspiration of space.

I don't think I'll ever own a house. Maybe a condo but who knows? My life has moved in such odd directions - or maybe irresponsible directions - that it's impossible to define.

So I'll continue. I think this year maybe something very different in my life. It's what's been coming for a while. Just what, I'm not sure - but definitely something. new.

Barner at the PMH

MobileMe gallery is here.

I am resolved - which is really rather easy, except for the part where you have to admit to yourself you've let yourself down - to post more often here.

The current location is Market House Coffee, on the floor above the Portland Market House and above the shop of my favorite cheesemonger (and tall, leggy, lovely redheaded entrepreneur) K. Horton.

Both floors are under her stewardship. She had a stall in the late, lamented Public Market. I can see the Market's shell from where I sit, straight down Preble Street. It's being redone as offices for a phone banking company that makes calls for collection agencies - at least recessions favor some industries.

Still, my friend W.'s architecture firm got the redesign contract, so it's not all bad.

The room here on the second floor of the Market House is bright and warm; large windows on both ends of the room let rich light shine on the exposed brickwork.

The far wall from the couch I'm currently draped over has a triptych by my colleague from the Orchard - James Barner, by name.

He's a blond, bearded man, strong of build and possessed of a wiry intelligence. An engaging observational mind drives his unique humor - I think he'd be a formidable creator of risqué French knock-knock jokes.

I do know he makes interesting art - my eye keeps wandering across the room to look at the faces he's chosen.

Any art that makes you take time to be engaged is worth supporting - damned shame, then, that I can't afford to buy any of it.

Oh well - it's enough to know the possibilities are there.

Waiting for the Download to Finish

It seems my vaunted RoadRunner internet access slows down, dramatically slows down, after 5 p.m. so while I'm waiting for Countdown With Keith Olbermann to download I thought I'd post some general randomness during the wait.

**********

The Polar Express is up and running.

MobileMe Gallery is here.

I'm supposed to be helping out as an actor but getting to practices while trying to meet all my obligations at the Orchard has not gone well - in fact, it's not gone at all.

I did get down there to shoot pics of the first weekend - they actually came out quite nicely.

I remember watching the Summer Children's Theatre put on by the Tulsa Arts Council, back when I was in Fifth and Sixth Grade - it was "the Wonderful Village of Vim" and I still remember the "Dancing Dragon" song ("You've got to love that dancing dragon, till you reach the top...").

I also remember the pain of wanting to be on stage so much, wanting to be a part of all those cute (very, obnoxiously cute and pretty) kids - I think all of them came from the Soc schools in Tulsa ("Sosh", long "O" - if you've ever read "The Outsiders" you know what I'm talking about - set in Tulsa, no less). I followed the show as its portable stage went from park to park, biking into areas I didn't even knew existed, just to see it.

Today such a child might well get dragged up on stage - I'm pretty sure Reba Short, our Artistic Director, would see to it - back in the Sixties a Native American kid, even a starstruck one, was a non-person.

Now, I help run a theatre and a Children's Museum. What goes around comes around.

***********

There is a team of people, police mostly, who do nothing but check the streets on cold nights like tonight - it's 23º out - and get homeless people into the shelters. It's not all that bitterly cold but those nights are on the way. I saw them outside my window tonight, over in Bosnia, trying to talk a ragged man into the back of a cop car, trying to get him out of the cold.

It's very dark out and the wind is fast and cutting. I hope they talked him into it.

***********

Looks like the download is finished. Part of me wants to hear what the latest outrage is, part wants to go our for a walk in the bitter cold. Part wants to just go to bed. Tomorrow I'm working from 1 to 10 p.m. and it should be a hoot - more and more it becomes "all hands on deck" as the Holiday Season rumbles gamely on.

Strange to be a part of it.

Two slices of pizza, a hot dog

This is what I'm thankful for:

There has been a new homeless person, a woman, wrapped in layers of plastic and often seen leaning up against news boxes belonging to the new daily free newspaper in town.

Portland does not have a large, visible population of homeless people.

At least, not so you can see.

There are the usual suspects, mostly men called the “Park Street Social Club” by a local television station. I’ve seen them over the years, getting a little more shaky, a little grayer, dirtier - and then noted their absence. It’s a rotation of need and despair that you sometimes see - and sometimes gloss over too easily.

But women, for physical and social reasons, are rare.

So she has appeared on Congress Street. She’s part of the scene now, someone easy to see, easy to notice and therefore easy to ignore.

An extra slice of pizza fell into my hands the other night. Otto Pizza, a new addition to the line of small eateries on Congress Street, was closing when I dropped by on my way home from the Old Port. They are a simple business, selling good pizza at reasonable prices, staying open at convenient hours for those of us out and about.

I’ve gotten to know the owner - he has a MacBook Pro, 17” and doesn’t know how to use it. I can’t give him lessons (well, maybe if he paid me in pizza. Maybe.) but I did set him up with resources at the store he could use.

So coming in just as they closed got me a second, free piece of pizza - hot off the oven, crispy and well-made.

And there she was, sitting just across the street, in a maddeningly convenient place on my path back home.

So, the second piece just went to her. I had no use for a piece of pizza that came into my hands by accident.

Same thing for a hot dog. I’ve posted pictures of the Monument Square hot dog stand and it’s affable owner, John. He’s friendly and supportive on sunny days, making basic, quality dogs.

He’s even a more welcome sight on gray days like today.

So last week I broke my own rules and bought a second hot dog - with mustard, ketchup and kraut.

Again, it wasn’t the distance of a dozen steps before I saw her again. Suddenly the second hot dog seemed to weigh a ton, it was covered in sugar and yellow cheese, it was frosted and pointless ...

... until it left my hand - suddenly it was the most lovely hot dog in the world.

I suppose I’m being unfair and clueless, as usual. It’s only a hot dog and a piece of pizza and there isn’t a great deal I can do about a homeless person, at least not right now.

But, right at this moment I’m grateful that I can afford a second hot dog, that a second slice of pizza came into my hands and that I really didn’t think about the impulse to give it away until right this minute, sitting here at Mousse, writing, looking at what is the last Farmer’s Market of the official season.

The day before Thanksgiving.

I’m the luckiest man in the world. We, all of us, all over the world, can be the luckiest, most thankful people in the world.

Once we see what is obvious - and then act.