anti:freeze

note toward a psychogeographic map: beneath the Burnside Bridge ramp, near Skidmore Fountain. 8:30 PM.

The lighting is the same texture and temperature as the light in LAX the first time I walked through it. The same hue of yellow, even. The yellow of crime scenes. The yellow light that shines on security fences - the ones with "Beware of Dog" signs. A place you might find a body. Or, in the case of LAX, a place you might brush past a terrorist on your way to pick up your suitcases.

Strange to stand here and remember that first landing in Los Angeles. The long, yellow tunnel that led to baggage claim was the exact shade of headaches, influenza, drug addiction - if these conditions have color. My palms were blistered by the canvas strap on my carry-on, which was too narrow and weak for all the books I had packed. My finger joints ached. I couldn't find the claim area for Alaska Airlines. I was prepared to leave my clothes behind if it meant getting to the hotel faster. Los Angeles was terrifying, and I wanted to curl up on my bed and hide.

That was before I stepped outside and felt the air. Before the cab ride through streets lined with palm trees. Before I walked along Venice Beach. I fell in love with Los Angeles almost immediately, and I still fantasize about moving there. Now I have a little fragment of the airport, right here in Old Town. Cars roar overhead on the bridge, and I close my eyes, imagining the SUVs and stationwagons as airplanes, speeding off the exit ramp as if it were a runway, soaring over downtown Portland.

note for map: area beneath Burnside Bridge induces to dislocation, terror, the sense that one could stumble over a body or fall down and become one . . .