This one goes out to Paul,

When I lived in New York,  this must of been in the summer of 02,  I had a dream.  A dream I experienced vividly.  I was in a small band of people.  We were on the move constantly,  like a band of Gypsies.  There was a feeling the we were being pursued.  Not that anyone was right on our tails,  but that we had to keep on the move,  if we ever actually stopped we would be apprehended.  We were in the woods when they caught us,  Some of us escaped but they took me and another guy in,  maybe they had three of us. they took my sketch books.  They questioned us for a while and then let us go.  when they released they gave me back my sketch books,  but they weren't the originals,  they were replicas.  We rejoined our friends,  even more apprehensive,  not sure why they had released us.  Then we were in these cavernous ruins,  and they were coming.  as we ran through the ruins, it was as if we were running through the foundations of different societies.  When we emerged we were in grass lands,  with roman columns shattered around us.  We climbed over a marble stone,  and there before us was line after line of suits.  Just like the bad guy in Matrix,  lines of them,  in military formation.  And every ten seconds another squadron would run into a hole leading below.  We watched as seemingly endless legions of suits ran below in unison.  We knew they would be coming back our way,  so we ran.  Of course it was futile,  The suits caught up to us half way across the field.  It was a slaughter this time.  I felt someone grabbing me and pulled out the only weapon I had,  a pencil.  The last thing I saw as I awoke,  my hand stabbing in the air,  was a pencil sinking into the neck of some faceless business man.  That was my dream.  My grandmother,  who is a Jungian psychologist,  told me the dreams meaning would become more apparent to me in time,  it has. 
         

I'm back

O.K. I have thought about a dozen different things to write about in the last month but never found the time to bring them into fruition.  It's been a busy twenty four hours and now here I sit in my pajamas and a new pee coat in Portland.  I'm unemployed and all geared up for some drawing.  For the first time I have Internet at my house so I can be on the  computer and in my pajamas researching and talking about comics 'till the wee hours of the night.  Fuck yeah,  I am happy about this turn of events in my little life.  I got to see a marvelous friend of mine Morgan Hager,  and have a beer with her and Matt Watkins. That's my kind of night.  Since I was moving out of town my friends took it as an excuse to rope me into one late night debaucherous fiasco after another.  And my jadedness set in each morning with the dense fog hanging behind my eyes.  And I wonder why can't we go for walks down to the river and talk about what we really are thinking,  and afraid to be thinking,  instead of downing beer after beer until we can't talk or walk.  Now don't get me wrong I have problem with a tasty drug acting as our most effective social lubricant in a lonely society.  I just think what brings us together is the quality of the time we have with each other and the more we gather around drug abuse the more we aren't really doing what we intended to do in the first place,  appreciate the people we care for.
       So that's the end of my good bye Eugene rant,  let us proceed to the hello Portland rant (much better).  I have only been here for a few hours.  Morgan drove her dad's '64 Mercedes down and once she got to Eugene it started to leak every fluid but water.  So she had it towed to Portland.  I got home from Meiji (the bar I was working at) at five thirty in the am.  She had already called the tow truck,  and I was coming from a pu pu platter of smooth whiskey tasting (just after I bad mouth booze).  The tow truck didn't come 'till seven.  We quietly sat at the kitchen table,  I wrote a letter to Brett and Melissa thanking them for welcoming me into their home for the last two months.  I will have to call them and see if it made any sense.  Then the truck came,  loaded that classic beauty on it's flatbed,  we loaded ourselves,  and we were off.  A friendly guy with tats on his hands and a handle bar moustache was delivering us from a town I will describe now as small,  sad,  and sorry.  No better exit can I recall,  cops questioning a guy on the porch while the morning joggers go by with head lamps on like miners in the night.  Warm air being blasted on my legs,  and knowing the minute I feel it that no matter how hard I try,  my lids are going to come crashing down.  It was a good goodbye.  You should always leave a town at dawn.  And it took me back.  But now I am in a city again after seven and a half years.  I am going to have to take a long walk tonight.