The Reality of it Seems Real Now

First Concert -- Daryck Porter -- Age 14

The reason it didn’t seem real was because it wasn’t. Oregon is part of my past and it is highly unlikely that I’ll ever return there as long as I can maintain this youthful intensity—my prows.

Of course, my closest friends will think I’m stupid once they find out what I’ve done; for turning down financial stability in favor of riding this tumultuous bipedal-cycle on the edge of ruin. I will most likely fail and spend my twilight days laying in the gutter from this apocalyptic quest (to uncover what has been hidden in me; to empty and dig out Iron John's pond I stare into searching for that psychic wound that propels me) to pen and perform that perfect poem. Seattle is my home. I’d like to be buried in Lakeview Cemetery or have my ashes scattered over Capitol Hill in the same manner in the “Great Escape,” the tunnelers got rid of the dirt.

Rivers of Light

My mother kind of understands. My father seems disappointed that I could not sacrifice my dreams in favor of financial stability. However, neither he, nor my sister have sacrificed anything pertaining to their core being or purpose for living here. My father is a provider. His Swedish immigrant folks wanted him to be a college professor, but my father's dreams for himself didn't contain their desires. He tried, but he couldn't do it. He dropped out of grad school and joined the army. He called his folks the day before Christmas Eve and told them he wasn't going to make it for dinner, because he was in boot camp. His folks were crushed and in one sense, they never forgave him.

Another tolkienesque side stream: My folks have always preached to me about (a golden calf called) healthcare. Perhaps I someday will care; when I'm laying---a ward of the state in a county hospital---in my own urine and excrement, sores oozing pus all over my body, praying and screaming in my head for deliverance, and where the only word I can utter is a forelorned "hello..." to a government runn staff wehre nobody cares. To me it seems that if you aren't lifing your life now then you're dying and there is no amount of (affordable) healthcare, investments and IRA's, high paying jobs, and saving plum full accounts that will keep a body alive when one has nothing left to live for. It preplexes them that I have lived this way. I understand now why poets die poor and alone.

Painted Pinholes of Stars 

I realized after the job interview on Friday, that what is going on down in Salem and Lebanon are all about my sister’s goals of building an empire. My father is going for broke to finance this venture. There are other factors in play and I’ll talk about them when I can, later. After the interview, I realized that I too can do as they are doing, that I can choose where I want to live, that I can make my own decision about my financial future, that I can and will be going for broke in my own venture.

Friday, in the realization of this, I was born again new. A new Seattle opened her womb to me. I have shed all the chains that tied me to yesterday. So, I can single-mindedly peruse my literary goals and finding the financial support to make it happen. I no longer live between two states. I am water. Fluidity. I am the combination of solid and gas. I no longer sublimate.

Supernova

Friday, I celebrated this birthday by going to the Slayer, Megadeth, Testament concert at WaMu. I celebrated by going into the pit and doing the metallic mosh dance. I got creamed down into the cement floor picked back up and slammed back down again. It was exhilarating. I took some random fantastic photos and two of them fit together like a poem.

Ronnie, Randy, & Daryck Porter

This me a new green seedling and at peace

I think I can. I know I can. I can become.

A public artist.