Friday, July 13, 2012

I got to thinking about the past and how defined it is by places. For instance Buckman Heights and Buckman Field (and really that whole little area) will forever define the golden months of John and my relationship. Whenever I go by that area I'm struck with nostalgia. Staying up all hours of the night, John saying how he didn't hate cats like he thought he would. Baked mac and cheese, blackberry merlot, walking everywhere. The first night we spent together when Az still lived there. Our first 'kiss" on Az's bed. Hanging out drinking after bowling, get power bracelets. So many amazing memories in such a short span of time. I look back on that place and I think if only we could get back here, life would be as it was. We were broke, we were living there illegally, but it was so sweet and it remains the pinnacle of perfection. How we didn't accidentally make an Oliver way back then is beyond me, guess it just wasn't meant to be.

While living there we frequented Montage quite a lot. It was open late, great for that late night hunger that hit after... rolling in the hay. It was there that our relationship grew, it was there that I realized that John was the person that I wanted to without doubt spend the rest of my life with. It was there John planned on proposing... though he didn't because I knew he was going to propose and he got all huffy about it. I imagine it will be included perhaps in his round two proposal down the line some time. Montage to me is Portland. It feels like home, and overly pretentious all in one. The food is phenomenal, the atmosphere slightly odd, the service hit and miss. It's where we make sure everyone we know has been, just so they can have that slice of uniqueness in their memories. It always feels like it's our off the beaten path location, even when we have to wait an hour and half for a spot. It's flaming cake and stinky kitties, and ross islands. It's everything I love about the city I call home... even though I'm definitely a west sider.

Arbor Creek served its purpose. A place to live, to get past the rough spots. There are plenty of memories, but it's kind of where things stopped having a golden hue and became real. We fought, John decided that he really did hate cats, we went through bankruptcy and emotional turbulence. I suppose there were good times of Final Fantasy and reversed sleep cycles, and it was in a shower there that he proposed, but all in all it was very mundane.

Portlandia house is our current home. Though all the issues we thought we moved past in Arbor Creek came piled on back with a fury we could have never imagined. It'll be here we raise our child. Hopefully this is the home we're able to buy. To say yes, we've made it. Though... for now it is a place of filth and annoyance at roommates and nothing more than a pretty box we store ourselves in every night. There is no golden hue, but I have hope that there will be some day. Hopefully soon. It is this place more than any other thus far that makes me long for Portland. For walking to Powell's in the rain. For sweet simplicity. For somehow everything falling into place. I wonder if we'll ever feel that way again. In our gorgeous house with the BMW out front, I guess we seem together. But we've never been stretched this thin, never been this close to drowning completely. I've never been this close to calling it quits on everything. So, there's a bit of brutal honesty for you. I just can't take this very much longer. I know that I have to, though. Things are going to get much, much worse before they get better. I only hope that love is enough to carry us through. Often times we've seen, it isn't. Perhaps we will be the exception. Perhaps we'll see what we're made of. Perhaps we'll have a guardian angel or a fairy godmother or something of the sort like we've picked up in the past. Or, we'll crumble into nothing and the house on Portlandia will not be remembered with fondness but with regret. As is the house of my youth, and the whole damn city of North Plains. It all has taken on a bitter taste, a putrid color. I hope we regain what Portlandia meant in the first place. A house, a garage, a celebration of us doing well. Our child's conception, life. The dreams of our youth realized. It can be all these things, and more, if only we make it through...

I got a bit sidetracked there. You get the idea though, yes? That for each place we travel we hold a wealth of memories, a general feeling, an aura of being. It's so strange and wonderful. If a picture is worth a thousand words, just being in a space you've been before is worth billions. Each frame of your life tumbling around you, recreating moments lost in time. The way the street light hit his face, that ice cold pool, ceiling fans in the dark, they're all tied to places that will out last our lives. Perhaps our memories will linger on there, as ghosts of the past. Let's make them good ones, shall we?

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