And so the inevitable personal business has to be conducted over the lunch period--a snack purchased from a sidewalk cart, laundry detergent purchased after standing in an annoying line, collect paycheck, another annoying line at the credit union--then walk the 15 or so blcoks back to the corner office work space. Summertime, headed for 9o degrees in Portland, and it's impossible not to look at women and imagine a tryst by the river or at the coast. The Forecourt Fountain is a mulit-leveled fountain across from our Civic Auditorium--a favorite of children and adults alike on a hot day.
A woman in a very tiny bikini suns on the top section--mothers play with their kids. Street people try to be subtle when gawking at the tanned body in the bikini, but they are as unsuccessful as I am. A dog plays with a tennis ball and once again I ponder the insanity of leaving the water, of leaving unclothed young women and heading back to an office.
Dionysius, please visit Portland and run for mayor. May we have cavorting and feasting in the parks and the streets. Suspend the drudgery of work, let us be more than drones, let us shed clothes and inhibitions to dance by the river to our own internal music. Please, Dionysius, it's been too long since the Bacchae took place. You left us with these stodgy, dull-ass religions and indoor churches. Your ticket is purchased, your reservation confirmed. See you soon.
Back in the office, low clouds to the west block a clear vision of the coast range. Clouds also hide Mt. St. Helens to the north. The clouds look like a person could enter them and disappear, or come out on the other side in another dimension. The idea of a random assignment to an alternate universe has been of great appeal to me lately, as are the ideas of nudity, old red wine, young women and an excess of leisure time.
The clock indicates 3 1/2 hours remain of my required presence. Then the late afternoon, twilight and evening beckon. Time to look for Dionysius in the park.