Last night around nine I walked from the bus to twenty third, the nob hill neighborhood. It is always strange, this walk. Walking from an abandoned industrial area, my only company a few other rogue vehicle dwellers like myself to a ritzy street with high end restaurants and shops. But last night I was still feverish and I had to contemplate my life and what brought me here. I thought of my father saying I should get a scholarship to pay for college 'cause there was no money. It might not of stung so if he was not a part time student at Harvard. Or if he ever talked about money at all. The line between privilege and poverty in my life has been a strange one, and living in a vehicle only makes it more apparent. It is not the first time. I lived in a van in NYC for a winter, but in reality it was only a few months. Muddy and I went back to New York when we first moved to Saginaw to make some money. I lived in a van until Christmas when I house sat for Sayre and Lori, then I stayed around for the month of January.
I must say I baffle even myself. I have too much of an independent spirit, and have been an artist for too long. I was just privileged enough to know I wanted to do my own thing, but I never had any support. This is a funky combination. Though I enjoy working, and liked all my jobs in the restaurant biz and wildland fire fighting. I am an artist, a creator at heart and in the end I desire a creative outlet. I must make art and I am stubborn enough to do it with no concept of how I would make money from it. So what am I, a privileged little American, painting, and living in his vehicle on the streets of Portland. Or am I an artist, governed by my desire to paint, with only creation in his heart. Well it is hard to say, maybe both. It is a little weird to be a hard working, nonalcoholic, living on the streets, and call myself privileged. But in America we have to recognize our wealth. For me to simply do something with no immediate monetary benefit denotes privilege. And to have done it for over a year now. It is interesting though. I would probably be able to live more in par with the people around me if I lived in a foreign country. Which brings me back to walking down twenty third street. I am not bemoaning my present situation but, just like in New York it makes me uncomfortable around wealth. These nicely dressed people in nice cars going to nice restaurants, it is horrible of me, but I think about how much money they banter around with, and how little money I would need to have a little studio and a place to legally park my bus. Of course once I had a studio I would only want more, a bigger place, more supplies, etc.
Allot of thoughts and feelings for a walk to the store to get batteries. I thought of my grandfather Ernie Sr.. He was someone I could always talk openly with. It has been nineteen years since he passed. Have I made him into a different person in that time. Elevated his character? No, not much. He really was a great listener. I did not know when I was a kid that I would never meet another person like him.
When I paint a portrait the world seems to dissolve around me. There is only the person sitting, my eyes receiving the information, my arms creating it, and the canvas capturing the moment. In some ways it was similar when I spent time with grandpa. He was so attentive to you, even when I was just a child, a conversation with him felt like a special moment in time. He wanted to understand the world through your eyes. I do not know what he did exactly, he was attentive n a way I have never seen since. There is a picture in my grandmother's book of him talking to a child, he is squatting down on one knee so that they are eye to eye. I love that picture. It is so characteristic of him, being able to bridge the gap between our spirits. He did it all the time, connected with people in a way they never forgot. Even if they only met him once in their life. To the world he was the president of the carnegie foundation, or the secretary of education, but to me he was a friend and figure to look up to.
I was still walking, on my way back now. Passed a yellow corvette, and holding the thought of my grandfather in my heart. Maybe I needed a friend, being sick and surrounded by unobtainable wealth. Maybe I wished I still had someone to look up to.
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