Laurie's Sweater
Friday, February 18, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Friday, February 11, 2005
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
The Writer's Hotel
Allow me to describe the place where I used to live and write; there I found the necessary solitude to create without isolation. I call it “the writer’s hotel”. Everything went smoothly like clockwork. The environment was free of every care allowing me to devote every ounce my energy to the act of writing.
A writer is a human being with needs like any other, for example, eating.
The hotel was highly affordable with quiet rooms and a good cook. Meals were delivered to the writers’ rooms by room service at regular hours, dishes removed by a porter after the meals.
As far as the actual physical appearance of the hotel where I dwelt, let your imagination run wild---oriental rugs, flowers, fountains… It could have existed pretty much anywhere. Mine was a bit seedy in the inner city---still there were no roaches.
The writer’s hotel is a socially advantageous arrangement because writers need to retire from society in a respectable manner without having to lean too heavily on Mom, family or lovers.
The neighbors and fellow tenant writers were polite enough to say: “Hello and good day!” but not so forward as to knock upon my door unless an absolute must.
I came to the writer’s hotel because I had come to the end of the road as far as “squatching” on other people’s food and property, especially those closest to me. One day my wife just put me out the door and in a moment I realized that I would have to buck up pretty fast.
I walked and walked having come to the end of many roads along the muddy evening river and decided to end it all with a jump into the cold murk. I glanced up to a green placard with a yellow daffodil reading: 24 hour suicide counseling 223-6161. “They would never understand me,” I thought. Glancing up I noticed three young girls in neon tights. I waited for a lull in traffic when no bicyclists might cross this old iron bridge over the Willamette River. Then I took my moment. Drawing close to the rail tossing over my blue backpack containing all of my earthly belongings, I looked down onto the grey oily ripples undulating with red and yellow light. I became hypnotized by the water’s shimmering surface. A seagull cried overhead. Startled and looking up I lost my balance and fell into the dark void.
I lost consciousness and was carried out of the water by a brave Negro who had been fixing his car on the road near the river bank. He pounded on my chest and breathed life into me again. His name was Curtis Grigsby, I promised never to forget him. I said “I’m OK” and hurried off ashamed of what I had attempted to do. Since then I have looked at life in a new way and thoughts of suicide have ceased to seduce me. It is still not clear to me whether at the last moment I jumped or fell by accident on account of the seagull’s cry. In any case what does it matter, I learned my lesson.
I never returned back home and by the grace of God found the writer’s hotel.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Of course, everyone knows that writer’s hotels do not exist. It was fiction. You have just read the first short story that earned me some money. The title was “The Writer’s Hotel.” I earned $140 from The Quarterly, a literary magazine who published it as new fiction. Of course, writer’s hotels don’t exist even though it is a congenial idea. So here I sit and write, I must admit the writer’s hotel did possess me for quite some time and it still strikes me as a solid idea, a realistic solution to many of the problems writers like me have to face.
Writing is my number one addiction---a storyteller, a fibber, even a liar. You are probably doubting my credibility---any trust that I had gained was squandered on page one! The part about losing my family is true and I don’t bear any grudges. I know that it is difficult to live with me and I earned my just desserts, left alone in the world to wander and write.
The full moon is well over Portland. I am in the alleyway below Bridgeport Ale about ready to call it a day. Tomorrow is going to be a big one so I better get some sleep.
I haven’t mentioned it but I am living on the streets. A “Streetperson,” in common parlance. Not your run-of-the-mill streetperson but nonetheless I do live on the streets. I get around in a wheelchair which is as much of a home as possess or need. I rigged it up with a futon roll on the back which converts my wheelchair into a bed. My little home is pretty special to me! I decided to put the money I earned on “The Writer’s Hotel” to work on an idea I was hatching at the time. I was out in the cold alone without a home with just my ideas to fend for. I said, “O.K. man, this is it you are up against the wall. Here’s your chance to use that brilliant imagination on something that’s going to keep you alive!”
So, I put my mind to the test. I extracted the basic idea of the writer’s hotel and imagined it in miniature, whittling it down to a $140 budget. It boiled down to this---me, bodily, clothed, warm and clean---alive, on the streets able to write every day and still eat. The hotel offers all of these amenities, but it is too expensive.
I went downtown with my blanket roll and dug around for a place to sleep under the bridge near the brewery. Finally I managed to fall asleep but someone kicked me in the ribs. It was the police:
“Hey you cannot sleep here, move along.” Two young cops watched me gather my gear together and walk away.
“For chrissakes I’ve got a right to sleep in peace,” I yelled.
“Not on our beat,” said the cops.
I walked the rest of the night all around downtown Portland up and down the city streets. Next day, the sun rose, I cleaned up a bit and got some coffee, thinking: “Man you have got to get it together.”
That night I slept in a safe place with bums and winos. “Pass the bottle!” “No way, man, you done drunk the last of my Thunderbird, you asshole.” On and on through the night this bullshit wino rap. I got about ten minutes good sleep. I knew that I had to do something, but what? I was about ready to head back to the Hawthorne bridge and to call it quits in the murky river, like in my short story, when a voice rose up inside of me, “Look at yourself, you’re not writing, you’re falling apart and burning up all your energy on everyday nonsense. You’re trying to live out of your old stories. Why don’t you put your money together and resolve your living problems?”
I meditated, schemed, scammed and then the pencil dropped. Bang! There it was---my plan in full. When I was a kid I saw a show on TV called “The Boy in the Bubble.” I think John Travolta starred in it. The boy in the bubble aside from being a true story, and very heavy and all, came to me as a metaphor for human consciousness. The kid needed the plastic bubble to block out microbes and germs was analogous to what a writer needed to block out ordinary everyday bullshit and write a good story. The kid in the bubble lacked an immunity system capable of fending off and counteracting aggressive, outside germs. That’s what the writer lacks as well. An immunity system---I mean symbolically. A system to keep out boring and stupid ideas. I was jamming on this idea about purified consciousness, which I gleaned from “The Boy in the Bubble,” back when I was a nine year old kid.
Well, eureka! The writer’s hotel is a kind of bubble too---the ideal workplace for the writer. Unfortunately, it is just a fantasy. And me being a writer and not an entrepreneur---I have no desire to go into business and try to build and market it as other well-meaning family members have suggested I should do. No, I’m a writer. I write.
I could build a bubble for myself though. I have $140 give or take a couple of cups of coffee and I’ve got this picture in my head---a kind of luxury wheelchair, a truly mobile home! I could live in a wheelchair with a heating system and all. Plus I can earn money by keeping a coffee can out front for donations. Sure it’s not totally honest---I already told you my honesty is suspect. I am a creator of fiction and it is imperative that I keep on writing.
I can play the part, in fact I’m a hell of a good actor. My role is to be a cripple living in the streets for charity. Hell, the living on the streets is already true. It’s not like I’m saying: “I am a cripple.” That’s just what everybody assumes when they see me in my wheelchair. It’s practically ethical.
There you have it, a mobile writer’s hotel! As I rock back the seat into my converted bed, pull shut my polyglass doors, and settle down for the 1000th time on these Portland streets. I’m rainproof, warm, with a blow dryer for really cold ones, which I plug into the external sockets of official buildings---museums, libraries and so on. I am also perfectly mobile. Downtown city space is pricey, the closer to the major attractions, the more expensive the night’s stay. The price of admission is staggering, but in my case, it is free.
I have adjusted to this lifestyle and it hasn’t been easy. One day at a time I go on, and honestly I do not look back. If you are asking, “Well, what about toilet, bath, food…?” It has all been ironed-out. During the day, nobody has ever seen me out of the wheelchair. I write, observe and write some more. Come nighttime I am free to park the chair, get out and jog, do whatever. Every third night or so I get a shower at Recovery Inn and I hurry out unseen. When dawn arrives I’m equipped with food and all of the paper and pens I need to write. Mostly I live on power shakes, fresh fruit and tofu burgers. Once in awhile I partake of a beer but not very often. Tonight is clamp down and rest. It is St. Patrick’s Day.
A writer is a human being with needs like any other, for example, eating.
The hotel was highly affordable with quiet rooms and a good cook. Meals were delivered to the writers’ rooms by room service at regular hours, dishes removed by a porter after the meals.
As far as the actual physical appearance of the hotel where I dwelt, let your imagination run wild---oriental rugs, flowers, fountains… It could have existed pretty much anywhere. Mine was a bit seedy in the inner city---still there were no roaches.
The writer’s hotel is a socially advantageous arrangement because writers need to retire from society in a respectable manner without having to lean too heavily on Mom, family or lovers.
The neighbors and fellow tenant writers were polite enough to say: “Hello and good day!” but not so forward as to knock upon my door unless an absolute must.
I came to the writer’s hotel because I had come to the end of the road as far as “squatching” on other people’s food and property, especially those closest to me. One day my wife just put me out the door and in a moment I realized that I would have to buck up pretty fast.
I walked and walked having come to the end of many roads along the muddy evening river and decided to end it all with a jump into the cold murk. I glanced up to a green placard with a yellow daffodil reading: 24 hour suicide counseling 223-6161. “They would never understand me,” I thought. Glancing up I noticed three young girls in neon tights. I waited for a lull in traffic when no bicyclists might cross this old iron bridge over the Willamette River. Then I took my moment. Drawing close to the rail tossing over my blue backpack containing all of my earthly belongings, I looked down onto the grey oily ripples undulating with red and yellow light. I became hypnotized by the water’s shimmering surface. A seagull cried overhead. Startled and looking up I lost my balance and fell into the dark void.
I lost consciousness and was carried out of the water by a brave Negro who had been fixing his car on the road near the river bank. He pounded on my chest and breathed life into me again. His name was Curtis Grigsby, I promised never to forget him. I said “I’m OK” and hurried off ashamed of what I had attempted to do. Since then I have looked at life in a new way and thoughts of suicide have ceased to seduce me. It is still not clear to me whether at the last moment I jumped or fell by accident on account of the seagull’s cry. In any case what does it matter, I learned my lesson.
I never returned back home and by the grace of God found the writer’s hotel.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Of course, everyone knows that writer’s hotels do not exist. It was fiction. You have just read the first short story that earned me some money. The title was “The Writer’s Hotel.” I earned $140 from The Quarterly, a literary magazine who published it as new fiction. Of course, writer’s hotels don’t exist even though it is a congenial idea. So here I sit and write, I must admit the writer’s hotel did possess me for quite some time and it still strikes me as a solid idea, a realistic solution to many of the problems writers like me have to face.
Writing is my number one addiction---a storyteller, a fibber, even a liar. You are probably doubting my credibility---any trust that I had gained was squandered on page one! The part about losing my family is true and I don’t bear any grudges. I know that it is difficult to live with me and I earned my just desserts, left alone in the world to wander and write.
The full moon is well over Portland. I am in the alleyway below Bridgeport Ale about ready to call it a day. Tomorrow is going to be a big one so I better get some sleep.
I haven’t mentioned it but I am living on the streets. A “Streetperson,” in common parlance. Not your run-of-the-mill streetperson but nonetheless I do live on the streets. I get around in a wheelchair which is as much of a home as possess or need. I rigged it up with a futon roll on the back which converts my wheelchair into a bed. My little home is pretty special to me! I decided to put the money I earned on “The Writer’s Hotel” to work on an idea I was hatching at the time. I was out in the cold alone without a home with just my ideas to fend for. I said, “O.K. man, this is it you are up against the wall. Here’s your chance to use that brilliant imagination on something that’s going to keep you alive!”
So, I put my mind to the test. I extracted the basic idea of the writer’s hotel and imagined it in miniature, whittling it down to a $140 budget. It boiled down to this---me, bodily, clothed, warm and clean---alive, on the streets able to write every day and still eat. The hotel offers all of these amenities, but it is too expensive.
I went downtown with my blanket roll and dug around for a place to sleep under the bridge near the brewery. Finally I managed to fall asleep but someone kicked me in the ribs. It was the police:
“Hey you cannot sleep here, move along.” Two young cops watched me gather my gear together and walk away.
“For chrissakes I’ve got a right to sleep in peace,” I yelled.
“Not on our beat,” said the cops.
I walked the rest of the night all around downtown Portland up and down the city streets. Next day, the sun rose, I cleaned up a bit and got some coffee, thinking: “Man you have got to get it together.”
That night I slept in a safe place with bums and winos. “Pass the bottle!” “No way, man, you done drunk the last of my Thunderbird, you asshole.” On and on through the night this bullshit wino rap. I got about ten minutes good sleep. I knew that I had to do something, but what? I was about ready to head back to the Hawthorne bridge and to call it quits in the murky river, like in my short story, when a voice rose up inside of me, “Look at yourself, you’re not writing, you’re falling apart and burning up all your energy on everyday nonsense. You’re trying to live out of your old stories. Why don’t you put your money together and resolve your living problems?”
I meditated, schemed, scammed and then the pencil dropped. Bang! There it was---my plan in full. When I was a kid I saw a show on TV called “The Boy in the Bubble.” I think John Travolta starred in it. The boy in the bubble aside from being a true story, and very heavy and all, came to me as a metaphor for human consciousness. The kid needed the plastic bubble to block out microbes and germs was analogous to what a writer needed to block out ordinary everyday bullshit and write a good story. The kid in the bubble lacked an immunity system capable of fending off and counteracting aggressive, outside germs. That’s what the writer lacks as well. An immunity system---I mean symbolically. A system to keep out boring and stupid ideas. I was jamming on this idea about purified consciousness, which I gleaned from “The Boy in the Bubble,” back when I was a nine year old kid.
Well, eureka! The writer’s hotel is a kind of bubble too---the ideal workplace for the writer. Unfortunately, it is just a fantasy. And me being a writer and not an entrepreneur---I have no desire to go into business and try to build and market it as other well-meaning family members have suggested I should do. No, I’m a writer. I write.
I could build a bubble for myself though. I have $140 give or take a couple of cups of coffee and I’ve got this picture in my head---a kind of luxury wheelchair, a truly mobile home! I could live in a wheelchair with a heating system and all. Plus I can earn money by keeping a coffee can out front for donations. Sure it’s not totally honest---I already told you my honesty is suspect. I am a creator of fiction and it is imperative that I keep on writing.
I can play the part, in fact I’m a hell of a good actor. My role is to be a cripple living in the streets for charity. Hell, the living on the streets is already true. It’s not like I’m saying: “I am a cripple.” That’s just what everybody assumes when they see me in my wheelchair. It’s practically ethical.
There you have it, a mobile writer’s hotel! As I rock back the seat into my converted bed, pull shut my polyglass doors, and settle down for the 1000th time on these Portland streets. I’m rainproof, warm, with a blow dryer for really cold ones, which I plug into the external sockets of official buildings---museums, libraries and so on. I am also perfectly mobile. Downtown city space is pricey, the closer to the major attractions, the more expensive the night’s stay. The price of admission is staggering, but in my case, it is free.
I have adjusted to this lifestyle and it hasn’t been easy. One day at a time I go on, and honestly I do not look back. If you are asking, “Well, what about toilet, bath, food…?” It has all been ironed-out. During the day, nobody has ever seen me out of the wheelchair. I write, observe and write some more. Come nighttime I am free to park the chair, get out and jog, do whatever. Every third night or so I get a shower at Recovery Inn and I hurry out unseen. When dawn arrives I’m equipped with food and all of the paper and pens I need to write. Mostly I live on power shakes, fresh fruit and tofu burgers. Once in awhile I partake of a beer but not very often. Tonight is clamp down and rest. It is St. Patrick’s Day.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
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