Portland counterculture

"Travel moves mountains large in the mind..." I remembered the line from a poem William Stafford wrote about a trip he took to Sweden as I was wheeling Emerson (pictured) home from a warm afternoon walk to the Willamette River near Lake Oswego, Oregon. I remembered that Stafford had lived somewhere around here, and wondered what Emerson was thinking as she slept.

On the plane up to Portland, the guy across the aisle read a graphic novel by Harvey Pekar on his iPad. I could see the pictures but not the words. I tried to read the novel by Herta Muller I was reading at the time, but it was too grim and I closed it for good when the plane started bouncing somewhere above Mt. Shasta. The moment I returned the book to its closed and locked position, the guy next to me said, "I see you're reading a library book...I think that's great." He said he wished his kids would read library books; instead they used his credit card to buy books on Amazon. "At least they're reading," I said, seeing the glass half-full which of course it isn't.

Grace, 5, Emerson's big sister, likes to write stories and draw pictures in little reporter notebooks she keeps. She tells me the stories as she's writing and drawing them, a piece of performance art I captured in video. I wish I could write like Grace writes, just go along with whatever comes into consciousness and then just give it away.

In the playroom, Grace made a tea party. She set out saucers, cups and spoons and asked what kind of tea I wanted. "I have Earl Grey," she said, so I had the Earl Grey.

After the kids were asleep, we watched The Olympics. Ashley, Grace and Emerson's mom, read a book. I asked if she liked The Olympics? "Who cares," she said, "it's a waste of time and resources." As she was speaking  NBC showed a man in the crowd, draped in an American flag and holding a baby, cheering for some athlete. "That guy and that baby should be in bed," Ashley said. Scene after Olympic scene was scripted just for Ashley. The event shifted to Velodrome bicycle racing. We watched as the two bikers started slowly, warily, then sprinted to the finish. The winner lifted his arm in triumph, the winner. "See," Ashley said, "that guy's whole life is now over. Alll that time, money, effort, over in a matter of seconds." I could see her point. Next event was beach volleyball. Ashley looked up from her book and said, "that event shouldn't even be in the Olympics," and went back to reading.

When the Bob Costas boobleheal doll appeared on screen, with gal reporter Mary Carillo doing a educational piece on Greenwich standard time, I surrendered my Olympic pass, suggesting to Lea Ann that we drive downtown to Powell's Books. Powell's is open until 11 p.m.