Landings
Portland proper, if not its suburbs, swirls with the pot luck attitude of a true community, although strong, valid critiques exist of redevelopment within the city as well. Far more than any place I’ve been in the United States except perhaps, as a matter of fact, the original Portland, this is a self-determined city, including the blemishes of its modernity.
As I land and swirl through so many past worlds of mine, I remember I can move about the city without thought. However, I’m still constantly discovering more beneath Portland's surface. The only time I ever had a similar sensation was at my five-year college reunion last year, and that feeling was aided by the presence of so many others who had experienced that period of my life with me. But where the grounding I find among my undergraduate peers is most firmly rooted in a mindset, there seem to be physical roots here in Portland.
Seen This Week Gets PDX'ed.
I've been in Portland (the Oregon edition) since March 13 for what could easily be the last Spring Break of my life (and for some personal business). So I have a handful of shots I took from here and there around and above Portland (actually, my aerial photography took place a bit south of Portland).
Want some coffee with your water?
Now I have a whole new reason for the landscape of my mind to be ravaged by battles over the choice of green tea and coffee: Thanks to Peter Gordon, I've just learned the Economist posted an item Feb. 25 showing it takes nearly 10 times as much water to brew a cup of coffee as it does a cup of tea, including the water used in farming, packaging and other processes. The data is pretty amazing, and shows just how much water we require for so many other products as well.
Seen This Week: Feb. 23 - Mar 2
It has been a bit of one of those weekends for me — not to complain to strangers, though ‚ I'll let the images speak for themselves. Highlights include an afternoon on campus at USC, a Saturday afternoon visit to the Bicycle district at Heliotrope and Melrose, and a quick jaunt up the coast to the Red Brick Gallery for Fashion Week Ventura, an event benefiting AIDS Project Ventura.
From New York to Jollibee and Back Again
It's not so much that I'm protective of my L.A. gems, but that it seems a latent instance of the somewhat annoying irony fad that so infected late 90's and early 00's Western culture, often fueled by inaccurate understanding of the term's definition. Perhaps, perhaps not. Whatever the case, I still keep picturing New York's food editors thinking how recession-chic it might be to list a new fast food outlet among the openings.
Adaptive Reuse: Parking Meters to Bike Racks
Some readers may know I'm working on a magazine-length news feature exploring the opportunities to change transit behaviors, policies and infrastructure in Los Angeles given the constraints of current resources, technology and politics. I'm most interested in what steps can be taken to permanently change how people move about the region. One thing I'm learning and hearing from others is that a crucial reaction to our economic and environmental crises is to effectively reuse, redeploy and repurpose the infrastructure and materials we already have available to us.
Lucky Day
This is our moment to choose. We can choose to live life as we have, to return to the way things have been, to struggle and claw against time, or we can choose to live differently, to stop fighting the current and instead, to be carried along, to let the world unfold before us. We are where we are, and we will be where we will be. Shouldn't we accept that? Or is that easy for me to say, not facing the worst of these times?
Getting these keys moving again
few weeks ago I started typing on one of my dad's old typewriters. The arms of each key on the Royal Arrow moved slowly, as if moving through molasses. My words tripped over themselves, caught in the machine's throat. Dust dulled the dark gray casing of the machine. Another typewriter sat on a table across the room. A portable Corona, its curved black shell was decorated with a gold-colored paint, although the decoration was muted somewhat by the years passed since the machine was owned by the journalist Melville Jacoby, a cousin of my grandmother's who died in an accident in the Pacific as he covered World War II. Also known as Mel Jack, I hope to share his story another time -- I only invoke him now because I can't help thinking about those machines, about what it feels to squeeze words onto those pages and what it feels like at this moment to string words across this screen.
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