There is that sound he never hears, as of a staunch steel underpinning being torn...
...at the seam by some sibylline strength at imperceptible speed. Projecting that sound on to a two-dimensional plane dangling in front of the Walmart semi storming south carelessly through the corner of SE Morrison and Grand, he saw the gaping seam transform into a portal on the other side of which lay the perimeter of space and time. There was no more proper way to conceive of death than as a radical repositioning of the self. Best not to dwell on its organic realities. Never a process, always a new geography. That was death.
But he didn't pass through that plane, not this time or any time before. The adrenaline that had flooded his system for a split-second subsided as he realized the semi had passed and that he had, regardless, remained firmly planted on the sidewalk, toes akimbo. Most Portlanders, being non-native, couldn't remember a time when this neighborhood had not been the province of pedestrians but of commerce-serving trucks that used MLK and Grand as intermediaries between I's 5, 405, and 295. He bore the native perspective, though not the nostalgia. He much preferred its current iteration as a gritty, post-industrial borough with monolithic factory and warehouse lots and myriad single-purpose retail, framed to the north and south by the Morrison and Hawthorne bridges, respectively. The occasional passing semis rankled his sensibilities, but he could accommodate them at least as much as the neighorhood had grown to accommodate him and his kind, he decided.
He untensed, flattened his feet, and crossed Grand. Noting the time (4:15), he decided he could stand a coffee at the bar before closing.
But he didn't pass through that plane, not this time or any time before. The adrenaline that had flooded his system for a split-second subsided as he realized the semi had passed and that he had, regardless, remained firmly planted on the sidewalk, toes akimbo. Most Portlanders, being non-native, couldn't remember a time when this neighborhood had not been the province of pedestrians but of commerce-serving trucks that used MLK and Grand as intermediaries between I's 5, 405, and 295. He bore the native perspective, though not the nostalgia. He much preferred its current iteration as a gritty, post-industrial borough with monolithic factory and warehouse lots and myriad single-purpose retail, framed to the north and south by the Morrison and Hawthorne bridges, respectively. The occasional passing semis rankled his sensibilities, but he could accommodate them at least as much as the neighorhood had grown to accommodate him and his kind, he decided.
He untensed, flattened his feet, and crossed Grand. Noting the time (4:15), he decided he could stand a coffee at the bar before closing.
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