Crossing St. John's Bridge

I don't keep track of fiction the way I keep track of nonfiction, since one doesn't have to make sense and the other does.

Neither do I keep track of poetry the same way I keep track of prose, as each lead to different places differently.

The difference between them is the difference between expectation and transport, with wanting to know something for sure while also requiring some delusion.

Riding my bike I'm at my best, always moving on the right direction, a pilgrim and a stranger. My iTunes account becomes pleasantly schizophrenic, going back and forth between Franz Schubert, Ralph Stanley and Thelonious Monk.

The blonde kid who comes up beside me, driving his mothers station wagon, is listening to Rap with the windows open. He's close enough so that I get to hear his music too, while I'm able to keep my own music to myself .

I'm on my bike, crossing the Willamette River on St.John's Bridge while listening to Pandora. The blonde kid's in the far right lane, one hand on the wheel, deep into his music.

I'm sawing away on my fiddle, listening to bluegrass, he's pretending to be rolling somewhere in South Central.

This little meeting happened last evening in Portland Oregon. I turned right at the end of the bridge; the blonde kid in mom's car kept going.