It’s 7 a.m. as I write this, so maybe it’s just the tequila talking. But this was a lousy June. A never-ending series of Portland mornings — dreary days that drive men to bars for breakfast and cause teenagers to pierce cartilage.
On a lifelessly gray morning last week I was driving north on the 101 Freeway, and the radio was airing endless reports on Michael Jackson’s sudden death the day before. The clouds outside mirrored the shrouds of sounds and sadness, white noise and unknowing on the airwaves. Tired of hearing the famous, infamous and indiscriminate tell of their personal pain at losing the King of Pop, I put on a different soundtrack.
He understands the world through music in a way few others do. Melancholy and inspiring, soulful and hopeful.
Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?
Soon the clouds were chased off by thoughts of summer. When I think of the Fourth of July and what it heralds, I don’t necessarily think of fireworks. I think of bug zappers breaking the peace of sweltering nights. The sizzling sounds of scorched insects, the brilliant flashes of blue providing a twilight show all its own. And when I drive down that street of summers past, I’m taken to the home of childhood friends.