i dream of dawn in astoria

i've been thinking about astoria. i spent several strange but sexy months there two summers ago. it was when patrick and i had first met. our relationship was not two ships passing but two ships crashing and lighting up the sea at night with their fire. it amazes me we have not yet extinguished, but instead have stoked our ashes toward a shoreline.

whiskey and beer and paint dominated that summer.

astoria oregon is beautiful place. i should have known how real his real his love was just by the sheer fact he had brought me to such a strange dream of a destination, nevermind the rest. 15th and franklin. our strange home. no hot water. we boiled old pots full of water on the stove and dumped them in the tub everyday, sometimes more than twice if patrick wanted a second bath. on nights when the whiskey had penetrated our hearts and the bile our stomachs pumped had leaked into our words, i slept in that old claw foot tub- the window always open with a view of the disintegrating estate across the street.

one special night nathan, patricks best friend from high school back in portland who lived across the hall, had knocked on our door with a crate of champagne and a container of caviar. i was in the tub, full of bubbles, the door cracked the way it was all summer from the laundry line patrick had made from his guitar cord that stretched from the living room to the bathroom window. nathan always halfway saw me naked all summer- getting dressed in the kitchen since our clothes were stored in the cabinets, in the bathroom peeing, running downhill towards tony's while i pulled my shirt over my head in a vicodin driven joy...

the bubble bath was nothing. patrick brought me a jelly glass full of champagne and a cracker with caviar on it. it was the only thing we'd eaten all day, not counting beer. nathan had a way of saving us all summer long, in beautiful and meaningful ways. he cared about us. worried. he was in bad shape too. but he had steady work and a little credit and let us feed off of him like a mother dog with too many pups and not enough teets. we got what we could from him when it was available. mostly we stole it but he didn't care. every morning when i heard him leave for work, the little manual transmission jetta kicking into gear down the hill, i'd swing our door open and jump across the hall to test his door. it was unlocked half the time and i'd dig through his dirty underwear, beer cans, pull up packs of cigarettes, unopened beer, a bag of frozen chicken from cosco, ketchup, coffee, milk. anything. he didn't give a rats ass. he just came home, knocked on our door and said "i need my ketchup," or, "since you drank all my beer today, you wanna go to tony's with me?" which meant he'd be buying me beers all night while patrick was at play rehearsal. in the mornings he would just open the door wearing work pants and a wife beater, his belly unavoidable paired with the drink stains on the white shirt, and ask, "can i have some of my coffee?" and we'd roll over and nod at him while he rummaged through our kitchen, and finally and silently went to work still drunk.

our door only locked when we made weird drunk or drugged love on our sleeping bag pile which passed for a bed.

i've been thinking about astoria.
about being sober and painting. painting every thought that the columbia river has passed through.

such a strange small town that can hold such souls in it's grasp.