Small towns always tend to entice me. Like when I'm in Portland, I find myself in them, and never wanting to leave. It's like I want one or the other. I cannot have mixture and melting of lifestyles.
I want to be out in the middle of the country side, in a small town with a dolled-up downtown, and ruins of former industry littering the streetscape. One where there is no aspect of planning, but that is okay, because there are no Urban Growth Boundaries to fill; there are no housing crises because of gentrification; there are no drivers to economic gain other than simply being there because that's where you landed, and that's your port of harbor.
Or I want to be in the middle of it all. Where the trolleys clank past, and buzzers and alarms keep you on your toes 24/7. Where at any minute anything could be going on, and you would never know it, or you'd be right in the middle of it. The background noise becomes a staple of your life, and eventually it becomes like static, always there. There are always things to see; always things to do; always a new "place" to be discovered.
On Monday everything seems to be shutdown here in Chehalis. I'm here on a Tuesday (thank goodness), but on all the signs on the doors it always says "Mondays- Closed". I wonder why that is. It is only in a small town would you find that uniform quirkiness of businesses and work weeks. In cities, all kinds of places are open during all times of the day, never being the same, spelling out diversity in the very fabric of the business of the metropolis.
It isn't that in the suburbs that businesses are open all the time. Nor is it that they are closed all the time.
In the suburbs there simply are no businesses.
It was weird at first, but sitting here in a small town, I can now see it. Everything is within proximity of the living areas. Granted, walking would be somewhat of a chore, but there is space when you move. You are easily within 5 minutes drive of any business in town.
In urban areas, everything is there. All at once. It is so compact, so focused, that everything is within easy walking distance, and everything is never but a five minute walk of where you live. You can easily access the things you need, and the things you want.
In suburbs, there are just oceans of houses. When you descend into one unit it's like you are delving into a maze. a maze with no public buildings, no public parks, no public space. The houses are all compact, and all privately owned. You can't walk into one for a quick break or snack! That would be trespassing! You can't deviate off of the quickest path! There's only more houses of the same stature for you to look at. And it takes forever to leave.
In one instance I remember driving out into Mount Hood National Forest. I looked up the quickest directions, and set off. But then I sat. At red light after red light, waiting to just LEAVE! There were no convenient highways to take me there, and the houses just strettttttttttttched for 10s of minutes. It came to be about half an hour until I was out of Gresham! I thought that Gresham was this nice little hamlet on the outskirts of Portland! Something like Troutdale, but a little bigger.
Was I wrong.
It was sprawl city. I just looked it up, and it's population is around 100,000 people. 100,000 people! That's a little smaller than the entire city of Vancouver! And there are two other "suburbs" of Portland that are like this! They are bedroom communities, much like Vancouver, but west of the city.
When I take US 26 out westward towards the coast I always find this surprising about Hillsboro and Beaverton. They also take forever to get out of. It just so happens that US 26 is a limited access highway, so it takes slightly less time.
I have a hard enough time reckoning a place out of a suburb city that is, in it's entirety, outside of the state of Oregon, and therefore has a head start on creating an identity of place. I wonder how it must be living in those other places, where all you have in terms of identity is your neighbor.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Tuesday, June 23, 2015
Social Struggle in a Mountain
Looking upon Mount Hood today, I struggled with many feelings. I was out on a rage-fueled power walk around the empty lot beside our office, recoiling from the sudden news of less-than-desirable communications.
I was at entirely no fault, yet my latent guilt complex kicked in, and I immediately started unnecessarily pleading that I was innocent; that everything that had happened was the exact opposite of what I had instructed those involved explicitly not to do. But this happenstance wasn't even that major. It had no reason for the level of concern I gave it.
It may have been the proverbial last straw that broke the camel's back. I have no idea where what went wrong, but my mind snapped. The single lock holding back the frustration broke, and my mind instantly went into self-blame and anger.
As I started the rage-induced power walk, I found myself starting at the mountain. That looming mountain. It towers, and in someway it could be a physical metaphor for the struggle I've been facing here. The thing with Mount Hood is that you can drive to the treeline at Timberline Lodge, and start your accent there. It gives you a running start. The Northwest does this too. A great job market, ripe for unique and young talent, and taking people in. And they do.
But there are only so many allotted climbing permits up this mountain. Those who are privileged enough to snag one before they fill up are permitted up the mountain. Others find they arrive at Timberline Lodge, ready to get to work and show off their stuff, only to learn they don't have the privilege of getting stable housing, ready medical care, no hike up the ridge for you.
Yet others come from afar, and are ripe for the region, yet find they chose this wonderful looking ski area from which to start, just to learn there is no safe approach to the summit from their location. They were misled by marketing efforts into thinking they would have the mountain to scale with their own wits, when in reality, they have expended their resources on moving to the region, and cannot move on.
I'm in that last camp. I came with the promise that there would be a progressive, young, and energetic population. So I chose a perfect looking northern camp, ready to ascend when I arrived. But alas. No approach. So I've done what I can. I've made this camp as nice as I can try.
But the progressive, young, and energetic population? They are riding on their privilege up the mountain. They secured their pricey climbing permit, bought the expensive top notch gear, and have already started their accent. And that lucky room for a mountain climb only opens up when one of the members of the party comes back down due to exhaustion or altitude sickness, and only those with the resources and luck can start their accent, while the rest of us are stuck on our less impressive summits, and warming our hands by the fire in Timberline Lodge.
The population on the non-approachable sides of the mountain are insular and protective. They contain a conservancy of attitude that I thought did not exist in this blue swinging utopia. Granted, while they are not as red as other places I've lived, they are more condescending and ignorant compared to those of the East. The rural here is a strange mix of a libertarian type of red, and a social type of red. And it is the majority in four out of the five counties I work in. Each has their own flavor, yet all in the same idea: Outsiders are not to be trusted, different is bad, and status quo is the only way to hold on to what little you have left.
I've traveled to Timberline Lodge, and I've met and spent some time with those who made it there, and chose not the wrong area but simply did not have the resources to begin ascending. They live in the lower middle to lower echelons of society, content, but not excelling. Their spreadsheets may be static, but they hold hope that they will update eventually, with enough hard work.
Don't get me wrong. All people across the region are beautiful. They all hold their own interesting quirks and quarks, and they all can be great to work with. I fancy myself the kind that can communicate with most people, but some are just too tough of eggs to crack. I've opened up my toolbox of methods and tried my best in all directions. But today affirmed that some battles you just have to leave behind.
This region has mentally exhausted me, and I am beginning to see why people hole up in their islands. Residents stay local to their niche, to the place that suits them. That could be from the center of the progressive city, all the way to the small flower lined Main Street of their rural village. But people do not mix. Both sides do not explore, do not reach out and connect, and cannot accept each other's help.
It's that crux that we see so often across this great nation. The urban has the resources to help the region, including the rural, and makes large decisions for the rural areas as a result their power. But the rural provide the food, the recreation, and the cultural diversity and escape for those in the urban areas.
Both need each other, yet they act like neither can ever get along. Cooperation out here is anything but a fragile line in the sand, and both parties are content to kick and dust that line away, and are content with the tide coming in and taking away the essential other. And that is not what I like. I cannot survive in an area that does not acknowledge it's other, and is perfectly fine with letting ignorance wilt the other half away.
I was at entirely no fault, yet my latent guilt complex kicked in, and I immediately started unnecessarily pleading that I was innocent; that everything that had happened was the exact opposite of what I had instructed those involved explicitly not to do. But this happenstance wasn't even that major. It had no reason for the level of concern I gave it.
It may have been the proverbial last straw that broke the camel's back. I have no idea where what went wrong, but my mind snapped. The single lock holding back the frustration broke, and my mind instantly went into self-blame and anger.
As I started the rage-induced power walk, I found myself starting at the mountain. That looming mountain. It towers, and in someway it could be a physical metaphor for the struggle I've been facing here. The thing with Mount Hood is that you can drive to the treeline at Timberline Lodge, and start your accent there. It gives you a running start. The Northwest does this too. A great job market, ripe for unique and young talent, and taking people in. And they do.
But there are only so many allotted climbing permits up this mountain. Those who are privileged enough to snag one before they fill up are permitted up the mountain. Others find they arrive at Timberline Lodge, ready to get to work and show off their stuff, only to learn they don't have the privilege of getting stable housing, ready medical care, no hike up the ridge for you.
Yet others come from afar, and are ripe for the region, yet find they chose this wonderful looking ski area from which to start, just to learn there is no safe approach to the summit from their location. They were misled by marketing efforts into thinking they would have the mountain to scale with their own wits, when in reality, they have expended their resources on moving to the region, and cannot move on.
I'm in that last camp. I came with the promise that there would be a progressive, young, and energetic population. So I chose a perfect looking northern camp, ready to ascend when I arrived. But alas. No approach. So I've done what I can. I've made this camp as nice as I can try.
But the progressive, young, and energetic population? They are riding on their privilege up the mountain. They secured their pricey climbing permit, bought the expensive top notch gear, and have already started their accent. And that lucky room for a mountain climb only opens up when one of the members of the party comes back down due to exhaustion or altitude sickness, and only those with the resources and luck can start their accent, while the rest of us are stuck on our less impressive summits, and warming our hands by the fire in Timberline Lodge.
The population on the non-approachable sides of the mountain are insular and protective. They contain a conservancy of attitude that I thought did not exist in this blue swinging utopia. Granted, while they are not as red as other places I've lived, they are more condescending and ignorant compared to those of the East. The rural here is a strange mix of a libertarian type of red, and a social type of red. And it is the majority in four out of the five counties I work in. Each has their own flavor, yet all in the same idea: Outsiders are not to be trusted, different is bad, and status quo is the only way to hold on to what little you have left.
I've traveled to Timberline Lodge, and I've met and spent some time with those who made it there, and chose not the wrong area but simply did not have the resources to begin ascending. They live in the lower middle to lower echelons of society, content, but not excelling. Their spreadsheets may be static, but they hold hope that they will update eventually, with enough hard work.
Don't get me wrong. All people across the region are beautiful. They all hold their own interesting quirks and quarks, and they all can be great to work with. I fancy myself the kind that can communicate with most people, but some are just too tough of eggs to crack. I've opened up my toolbox of methods and tried my best in all directions. But today affirmed that some battles you just have to leave behind.
This region has mentally exhausted me, and I am beginning to see why people hole up in their islands. Residents stay local to their niche, to the place that suits them. That could be from the center of the progressive city, all the way to the small flower lined Main Street of their rural village. But people do not mix. Both sides do not explore, do not reach out and connect, and cannot accept each other's help.
It's that crux that we see so often across this great nation. The urban has the resources to help the region, including the rural, and makes large decisions for the rural areas as a result their power. But the rural provide the food, the recreation, and the cultural diversity and escape for those in the urban areas.
Both need each other, yet they act like neither can ever get along. Cooperation out here is anything but a fragile line in the sand, and both parties are content to kick and dust that line away, and are content with the tide coming in and taking away the essential other. And that is not what I like. I cannot survive in an area that does not acknowledge it's other, and is perfectly fine with letting ignorance wilt the other half away.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Sharing of Place
There always seems to be a crash that comes with the highs. I don't want to muse on about balance, but that must be the explanation. Everything tends towards high entropy, making sure both sides are equal, requiring energy to move packets of down back to the packages of up.
Sharing this place helps me do that. I love to share my place with others. Over the past weekend I shared this natural wonderland with some folks from college. We went to Mount Saint Helens, went into Ape Caves, saw the Trail of Two Forests, and hiked over Lava Canyon. The usual tour. But something this time was different. I unabashedly enjoyed myself.
 |
| Lava Canyon Falls |
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| A railing to hike past a waterfall and on down the trail. |
At the end of the day, my sides hurt, I worried not, and really let my "true" self shine. We got dinner after hiking, and then went home and played Mario Kart 8. It felt exactly like I was back in good company.
 |
| The lovely people who were on this adventure. |
I love it when people visit. I can host again. I can create a welcoming and friendly environment where we can have fun, enjoy the same things, and just be.
Friday consisted of me working, and administering a "Bus Training" for some staff at our agency. The goal is to get a better understanding of what the bus system is like, and to get some "on the ground" experience of what clients go through. But I just realized: It seems like even that is a "sharing of place" in a certain way. I was sharing my place of public bus with others who haven't seen it before.
After a tiring trip around Portland that included food carts and lots of walking, we went to one of the best live shows I've ever attended. The Mountain Goats played, and there was a great intro band called Blank Range. Oh god I sang along and danced live I never had in my life. I guess maybe you could call it "losing yourself"?
Sharing experiences with others. I think that is central in what I do. I adventure, learn, and observe. Then I try to show others. Place is a much bigger thing than simply a geography. It involves people. It involves actions. It involves happiness. But most of all, place is interdependent upon all of those things.
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