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www.kevacho.com
©2002-2024
Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon
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July 26, 2003
Contemplate...
This city burns me some times. I feel myself caught in a fire, not of my own making, but a fire nonetheless that was somehow made with my hands, or by my will alone.
Here in this city, this suburb, this neighborhood I am hounded by noises: neighbors screaming profanities at one another, the Tri-Met bus stations ceaseless beeping, as bus after bus after bus backs into a pre-determined parking space, horns crying out like emotions, the slice and hum of tires rotating above concrete. It is hard to find the quiet sometimes; and believe you me I have tried. I have delved deeply in an effort to plumb the quiet from this city. However, you can't. No matter how deep you go. It's always there, in some or another incarnation… the damnable noise.
I remember times in my youth, seated atop a hill or even a mountain, the land spread out vast and wild below me, colors- from brown to red, green to blue- dappling my eyes and my virgin thoughts, overtaking my consciousness, infecting my dreams. My mind, itself overcome with the strength and beauty of the land, taken aback by its raw power, as well as my humble reverence towards this. There was quiet there. Amidst the mountains and the forests of pine: redolent like cinnamon, nostalgic like an old toy, a solitary quiet, with only the wind and the sky and the clouds whispering to me of soft secrets and distant mysteries.
I think, someway, somehow I knew I would be leaving, leaving all the quiet and the mountains and the wild behind; albeit I always said, I never would. Only then, all by myself, was I able to divine the true purpose and meaning behind it all. Yearning to freeze the moment, but knowing, through wisdom garnered in those same mountains, that I could never freeze it, only appreciate and admire. Watching…
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