The Couch Surfing Community

So yeah there is this website known to the world as couchsurfing.com, in basic, in that it is global and everyone calls it that (ir?)regardless of what their native language is, as English is basically king considering England once had one that we were all like whatever to then busted out on our own and dominated; so it goes. Couchsurfing is a profile-based interactive community that enables one to solicit or provide for a roof over the dome of a traveller through online networking means. It is not driven by the forces of capitalism but rather those of karma, in that to give is to receive, pay it forward, and so on. I've utilized the site to provide for shelter for the last three sets of seven days here in Portland, as initially I had time to chillax and grow acclimated with the atmosphere, then having begun an apartment hunt in earnest eight days ago, have yet to find an ample abode. The housing market in Portland is inundated with renters; those with a pad hold what are essentially casting calls, interviewing exponentially people compared to the number of rooms they have, stacking humans atop one another as shipping containers spaced out evenly at fifteen minute intervals. This difficulty however is entirely acceptable, as it has forced me out of the renter's bubble for a moment and pushed me into a world of individuals as disparate as the elements man, travellers and drifters and philanthropic locals with surfaces to spare and a wish to care. My first contact to the site came through Mairead, a barista at the Bean Counter in my home town of Worcester MA as I was trying to sub-let her my apartment within which my sword and inventory rest still; check out my review for it on http://mjwesterman.yelp.com/ ; who upon checking out my apartment alongside her friend Eli I believe mentioned they'd heard of the site and known of individuals who'd sillied it up. I told my boy Rye-Guy. He said his ex girl from high school was a member in Portland just as I had given up my attempt to move to Puerto Rico and opened the triangle chart of movement locations: LA, San Francisco, or Portland. The final option came together and in short order I was upon the couch of Tamara and Alice in SE Portland. My forest green 5-speed 1990 BMW 535i was placed upon consignment with a dealer who is at this very moment defrauding me of my money after having sold it; used car dealers - yeah... Two weeks in passing there I shift to the couch of a guy named Guy with a wife named Jen a dog named Grrr and three chickens known as Original, Crispy and Extra Crispy. Five nights pass of kind hosting, a futon in a private study my place of rest. I met a young gentleman by the name of Serafim yesterday through a random call after a CS msg, picking me up on Alberta Street after having had tacos and checkout out a pad at a housing collective known as the Whale, who instructed me to call him "Chinky" although I refuse and through him a connection may be made as he is a nexus of personability. Tonight is unknown, a sort of out in the great wide open situation, under them skies of blue. Rock and Roll

A La Calle - Ahora at least mehn...

Two weeks into the Portland experiment and my hypothesis of awesomeness continues. No longer crashing with my bro Ryan's ex girl, I sit beneath the stars upon a reclined chair of finished oak at Guy and Jen's house, a couple met online through couchsurfing.com, a community of wanderers using karma to keep one another's trips through this world flowing. Their dog's name, a wiry Wishbone-esque doggy dog, is "Grr". Word. To my right rests a garden bristling with staked and vined tomatoes as upright comrades at attention beside other herbs cultivated, to the left my wet, perhaps about dry, clothes hang upon lines similar to the rather retro clothes-line rack curiously in the attic of my Father's childhood house and former Worcester crash pad, as a result of an earlier laundry situation. A few feet farther still three chickens roost, awaiting the dawn, prepared to produce breakfast. In Portland it is legal to have up to three chickens on a private residence without a permit. Conscious of green, I release a breath ignite and inhale; it stimulates. Appreciating the stars I laugh, "I hadn't ever thought to consider that it was space that was moving"; a line I roughly recall from the new Star Trek flick, enjoyable; and recognize that while progressing within, it is at times necessary to sit back, chillax, and let the movement go on without. Rock and Roll MJW

Wednesday

12-2am - 7pg paper on how The Passion of the Christ influences pop-culture's ideology regarding the narratives of the Bible, 2pg's on plea bargaining and the due process implications of Miranda Rights. 2-9am - sending the sheep to slaughter. 9-11am- awakening weirdness and wandering, adding 100wds to the cj paper as per a rewrite request. 12am- sushi, iced latte, lost my keys. 1pm - Resume dropped at Tin House literary magazine, met the managing editor. 1-3pm - wandering from NE Portland to SE Portland. 3pm- Resume drop at Glimmer Train Press, meet Linda and Susan, the owners/editors. 4pm - Interview at Mode Models, offer of representation, given I pay $100 for their photography session or just use my own photog. 5-pm - Wandering, jalapeno pineapple and cheddar pizza slice, drinking a few beers, joined by Alice and Tamara, skiball, maximum force. 9pm- short run. 10pm- witness a live jazz concert sax-ed by Joe, Tamara's boyfriend-type-thing, after which there is a beat-off, which despite its sexual undertones is actually, (unfortunately?) a remixing of the tunage by fourteen dj's; Wolverine is robbed like an elderly woman in pre-Guiliani central park. 12am-meet Yoni, a local musician and likewise creative type; we discuss how in SoCal people get together to get stoned and do nothing, while here they come together and get lifted while creating and collaborating. The Day after the First now begins, the woolly massacre ending at a late 1pm awakening mark.

Iosif Stalin had the night of the black limousines, Hitler had the night of the long daggers; I often wonder which generated more fear, the disappearance entirely of an associated being, or the discovery of their steel-pierced deflated bodies in the morning. Fear and mystique often go hand in hand, and should one rise, does the other one fall or perhaps diminish and dilute? These are important questions people, things those of us in the know simply must.

The Oregon Initiation

I fly, hesitant to take with me only a lighter. Upon landing I meet Alice, after meeting a rather friendly airport employee named Craig who offered to make me Filipino food, then like I said, I meet Alice, don't in any way inference the classic animated film, procure a lighter, and rise up from the airport into the city. At first I see a corporate absurdity, Best Buy Staples etc, but am quickly assured the only lame part is near the home of the airplanes. Coming to the neighborhood, I check out the pad, nice with an interesting flair, seven picture frames mounted upon the wall in an abstract pattern with only two having pictures, the others; empty... Skateboarding out onto Burnside I catch a wafting aroma in the air, one of glory, like napalm in the morning almost but not quite victorious. Tucan Samming it I follow my nose and come upon VooDoo donuts, apparently their satellite location in SE Portland, immediately killing a Butterfinger, chocolate cake donut with buttercream frosting topped in butterfinger chunks, and get a few to go, being sidetracked by a travelled lady by the name of Tricia who I follow to her apartment, from which she'd been locked out of, to observe and learn her skills at picking a lock; she was unable to do so but offered to buy me a beer; kind people here; but I had people to see, places, and so I had to go. Meeting Tamara for the first time the second time around, chilling, plagiarizing a paper on Jesus, and plotting the plan of tomorrow, the literary hunting and munchie opportunities. Blogging. Crashing. Unconsciously Rocking and Rolling.

A Much Shorter Story

"I'm a straight arrow..." "Really...?" she says. "...rather, I'm a crooked arrow with a straight shot." "Much better..." she says, stroking a lick of the lengthy blonde and mohagony fire of hair ablaze, alighting amber eyes, "...now I'm not disappointed in you."

A Swap of Consideration


His post was published in the artists section of the craigslist community, seeking a fellow writer within which to trade feedback, his work a scripted tale of a bedeviled bounty killer, hers a novella regarding emerging bisexuality. They exchange emails and quips, personalities seeming to click through the keys. Meeting in person, trading hard-copies, they share a joint. She is El-Salvadoran, late-twenties, coffee-tone lending a contemporary flavor to her 1950’s pin-up figure, lashes complemented by fully inviting lips. The ash burning halfway, there’s space between them, the joint extinguished, she sits nestled beneath his arm, head resting against his chest as she exhales the last gust of smoke.
“Fuck… I hate to say it, but I need to get to class… we’ll meet soon, see how the reading is coming.”
Deep brown glimmers with mutual reluctance as his green stare fades. Rising, shouldering a suede messenger bag, he takes her hand tenderly, helping her up.
“I’m busy until Friday, but I’ll call you, I’m excited to get started.” She says.
“No doubt on that. I’ll show you out.”
He does, holding doors, impressing her with quite unfamiliar expressions of gentlemanly behavior, as chivalry is oft dead, particularly considering the girl’s line of work.

Working on a piece his phone rings, recognizing the number, sensing an energy, answering.
“What up Kaera.”
“Hey You.”
She’s had a fight with her open-relationship boyfriend. Fucking strangers is acceptable. Fucking best-friends apparently is not. Obviously stressed, he offers a session to lift her spirits should it be desired. It is. She talks. He listens. They stop. They smile.
Moving in, they share the first embrace, tongues meeting, experiencing, adapting, flowing. Passion sparked, she mounts him, gyrating in a practiced professional rhythm. Pulling off his shirt, scratching down abdominals, red nails flutter as she unbuttons his jeans, likewise disrobed, foreplayed.
Slipping into intimacy they fade seamlessly between intense lust and an almost romantic synergy, their flows having synced powerfully.
Time having passed and the crescendo orchestrated they appreciate a moment in passing admiration. She bites her lip, he licks his.
Rising, he assists in clasping her black lingerie, watching admiringly as she slides on her pants, hopping with effort to slip them on. I pull up my jeans, zipping, buttoning, tightening the belt and clasping it. She helps him slip on his t-shirt and he does the same.

Strolling arm-in-arm outside the warm afternoon sun strikes their flesh, a cool breeze skittering past, rustling the trumpeting blossoms along the drive. She perks up onto her tippy-toes, sharing a last kiss, her lips remaining against his for the length of an indulgent blink. Stepping down she wraps herself around his midsection, cheek nestling against chest, his muscles first tensing, releasing as he feels the realness of her embrace, returning. Pressing hard, pulling reluctantly away, remaining in one another’s arms for a beat, bittersweet vibes exchanged through a gaze, they’ve come together in parting.

Westward Bind

My name is Michael, Jack, Michael John, but on the East Side it soon won't matter until it does across, as I'm about to peace out, be swayze, gone. I've been running three to four days a week, training at World Gym three, laughing my way up higher inclinations during midnight jaunts. The song "Summer's Almost Gone" by the Doors, live, enchanted me in May, persevered happily into June only to haunt me in July, pushing me over the edge of the decision precipice, free-falling I am no longer. On Tuesday I'll be landing upon Portland, the West Side once again the locale I've chosen for my residence. I've not yet been there, however "Paranoid Park" was illicitly good, VooDoo Donuts sounds ill, the skateboarders there are better than me so soon will be my skills as I thrash along, and Southern California felt too comfortable for me to be content in such a choice. I'm halfway through the smithing of four domers, the first of which shall be sparked as the wheels of my storm-trooper board touch down upon the black fields that never die cutting through downtown Portland. Literary internships, the Burnside Review, Open Spaces, Tin House, are to be taken on forthwith son, leading to literary connections building to the dominos of publication falling into notoriety as the ostensible path beckons. Rock and Roll.
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