Thursday - November 3, 2016 Portland, Oregon I celebrate Jell-O, progress, and alienation. I celebrate this city that is kind but can be dark. It’s an unseasonably warm Thursday evening and the sun is setting over the Wes Hills. I’m at Mount Calvary Cemetery on the bluff where my grandparents and great-grandparents are buried overlooking the place they once lived. I struggle with anxiety. Paying them the occasional visit has a normalizing effect on me – like Xanax, but without the dangerous side effects. Like other introverts, I can have an over-active imagination. But I’m not here out of superstition – quite the opposite actually. I’m here because the specter of death provides a rational reminder not to take myself too seriously. I clear away the brush from the gravestones, set out some roses, crack open a can of High Life and poor a little out. Fond memories pass over me. I come back down to earth. I’m excited to find a text waiting for me when I return to the car. It’s one of my newer friends in town. Her name is Lara – a “painter and poet” as her voicemail always reminds me. We became acquainted earlier this year when I was living in Los Angeles, bonding briefly over our shared affection for earth-centered feminism. Like many well-to-do millennials, she recently felt “called” to migrate to Portland. She’s showing a painting at the Portland 5 Center for the Arts – “free beer and wine” the message reads. I can’t say no to that. I notice mud on my torn jeans when I arrive. Feeling shy, I track down Lara and we exchange a brief hug. She has other guests to entertain, so I decide to look around. Growing up poor in Northeast Portland during the 90’s, my experience with fine art was limited to what I saw on TV, in print or on field trips to the Portland Art Museum. In other words – I’m no expert. But even now, I can recall how it felt being exposed to Kandinsky, Monet, Jacob Lawrence and the Russian avant-garde. I give each piece about thirty seconds. If I’m not moved in that time, I swipe left. There are about sixty altogether and I’m finding little of interest. The few that do inspire are being drowned out by the chorus of “meh” sounding off in my head. Lara’s piece leaves me with mixed emotions too. It’s a collage of sorts. There’s glue stained purple macramé and lots of feathers – a painful reminder of the vapid “put a bird on it” cliché. I’ve seen enough. Walking over to rejoin Lara’s group, I’m offered a seat. The person next to me turns out to be an old acquaintance. Her name is Tracy – A local music figure who helped get my band a few gigs a couple years back. We go to the bar for wine and start catching up. Tracy tells me about her latest ventures and how she recently came out as an abuse survivor. I acknowledge her bravery and remark how important is is that women speak out to combat the stigma that reproduces traumas like one she experienced – we strategize for a bit. The conversation soon shifts to the state of the local music scene. We discuss all the promising new developments, of which there are many. But she’s had a few more glasses of vino than me and her tone changes. She confides that, on the one hand there is more access, opportunity and diversity now. On the other hand, there is less cultural exchange, collaboration and cooperation. I asked her what she thought was causing the latter. She was unsure. I wondered aloud if the rancor and divisiveness of this year’s election cycle had a chilling effect on freedom of expression, and by extension, a similar effect on local art and music. Tracy shares the challenges she faced as “white girl from Indiana” trying to market black music in one of the whitest cities in America. As racial injustices were brought out of the shadows, she noticed people’s tendency to run from the tough conversations that are needed for reconciliation. A theme emerges – open dialogue and free expression tend to suffer when people retreat to the safety of their respective identity camps. There is a word for this phenomenon, one I know all too well growing up in an emigrant family from the former Yugoslavia. It’s called balkanization. Derived from the Balkan region of Europe, ‘balkanization’ was coined in the 1990’s following the breakup of Yugoslavia. It describes the process of disintegration that occurs when a large religiously and ethnically diverse society devolves into tribalism. This what is taking place in Syria right now. The human carnage mirrors what occurred in the Balkans. Yet it’s murmurs can be felt here at home as well. I think the CIA calls it “blowback”. I asked Tracy if she knew of Slavoj Zizek? – the philosopher and culture critic known for his Lacanian psychoanalysis and idiosyncratic style. Considering the refugee crisis in Europe, he proposes an unconventional social exercise to combat the growing threat of racism and balkanization. Zizek recalls his days in the old Yugoslavian National Army – where Serbs, Croats, Slovenes and others all served in mixed regiments. To disarm ethnic tensions, one was obliged to tell a satirical joke about their own culture. Back then, the socialist government used the slogan “Brotherhood and Unity” to help foster collective identity. According to Zizek, the only time this axiom proved meaningful was when the nation shared in the radical power of humor. Tracy found the approach quite novel and I suggested we think of some jokes for ourselves. We got a good laugh in before a second round of hors d’oeuvres came by – trout mouse. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so out of place; which is odd considering there was a time not long ago when I thought mouse was made of moose. Lara returned with a man at her side – late middle ages, rustic appearance – an art buyer I assumed. He introduced himself as “Robbie”. Small talk revealed he had recently returned from Zanzibar after selling what little he owned to build a school there. He evaded me when I asked how he managed to afford a flight home after all that. At this point, I’ve smile-nodded through several “Portlandia moments”, some more cringe-worthy than others. This validated my inner recluse and I was leaning toward calling it an early night. There would be no such thing. Tracy left to catch a set on Hawthorne Boulevard’s The Liquor Store. Lara’s pal was set on Irish music at Paddy’s, an occasion for which he appeared to have dressed. I agree to tag along. ------- At our table I notice a silver colored anomaly in Robbie’s right eye. Come to find out, it was the result of a gunshot wound. The surgical reconstruction left him partially blind for a period of months. After which, he claimed to experience super-human eyesight. Curious, I probe further – He responds with some mystical jargon about seeing into people’s souls. I didn’t understand. If I had to guess, it sounded kind of like X-ray vision. Robbie orders blackened chicken salad and Scottish eggs for Lara who had requested food. After it is all polished, he turns our attention to the wilderness photos on his iPhone. Lara becomes visibly disinterested. She pulls out her sketch book and begins doodling. When Robbie inquires, she replies that she is “all peopled out”. I took that as que to get fresh air. I take a seat outside and scroll Twitter. Suddenly, a stranger fell into my lap – “Whoa!” I exclaim. Apparently, she didn’t see me and dove into the chair thinking it empty. She’s just as alarmed and embarrassed as I am – her male friends take off down the street laughing hysterically. The dust settles and we strike up a conversation over a cigarette. She has raspy voice, curly black hair cut in a high top fade, with a sassy attitude to match. It was her birthday and her boyfriend had failed to tell his bros. She’s feeling a type of way about it; musing aloud that something might be wrong with her because she is too submissive with him, but around her girls she’s a natural dom. As an androgynous woman who’s dealt with similar confusion in the past, I feel a teachable moment coming on. I explain how sexuality is often conflated with gender, and how gender politics has spilled over into the bedroom. I clarify – as women we struggle for gender equality politically, but are confronted by the fact sexuality produces asymmetrical power dynamics. The confusion may lie in a mistaken belief that submission and dominance are themselves gendered objects – synonymous with femininity and masculinity respectively. Thus gender presentation is not a predictor of sexual persona. In other words – Her masculine-leaning gender expression needn’t be in conflict with her submissive sexual persona. She nods as if following along. Politically “woke” women like us, I say, mistake submissiveness as a Patriarchal hold-over, so we can end up living in fear of our own sexual nature. The same can apply to dominant men, who fear being labeled “anti-feminist”. I assured her everything was perfectly normal –that she needn’t feel ashamed of, nor attempt to politicize, her inter-relational power dynamic as long as it was consensual. GID crisis averted. We laugh off some awkward silence, put out our cigarettes and go back inside. ----- I reconnect with Lara and Robbie and we head out. He sneaks in an extra kiss goodbye, which she curves to avoid. I give him a single handshake. We ride east and Lara is riled up about having to sit through Robbie’s life story. She doesn’t like taking on other people’s “energetic baggage” because it distracts from her work, she says. In addition to being a painter and poet Lara is also an aspiring fiction writer. She has a book in the works where one of the protagonists is based on her life. I remark how great fiction writers all seem to have a knack for observing human behavior. We arrive at The Liquor Store and Tracy meets us at the bar. Excited, she tells me she tried out the Zizek experiment as an ice breaker and it worked really well. Lara wants an explanation since she wasn’t privy to our earlier discussion. Her eyes roll at the prospect of having to tell a self-deprecating joke – it never comes. We go downstairs and catch a few songs from the band Silver Ships – I’m reminded of Robbie’s right eye and its extra-sensory power. The night lurches on – it’s just Lara and I now. She needs to make a pit stop at the Starday Tavern on Foster Road. She left her debit card there a day earlier. I wait in the car. Ten minutes pass before I go to check on her. She’s at the bar. The bartender can’t find her card. I suspect this was a ruse to get me inside. She buys me a drink. We shoot the breeze about the election. She asks if I’m going to vote. I say yes but she squirms when I suggest I will vote third party for President. I explain how the candidates opposing narratives perpetuate a level of Orwellian discourse too absurd for me to take seriously; a diversion to avoid addressing domestic crises like student debt, universal healthcare and living wage jobs. I’m mostly disturbed (and fascinated) by the degree to which people commit to a series of illusions and drift further and further from reality in order to invest in their chosen narratives. She reaches across me, grabs my beer and takes a long draught. As we arrive at her place the conversation drifts back to art. She starts in on Warhol, whom she admires for his unapologetic pursuit of fame. I ask her what is she wants from life – “I want to run some shit” she said. This comes as no surprise. In the past, Lara has expressed resentment for her mother, who controls the purse strings to her life of travel and adventure. Lara puts the question back to me – “I just want money” I say. “Why” she asks. “So I can run some shit.” She sighs and proceeds to caution me, “Well, you should be careful. Money can be “dirty”. “Dirty how – like filthy rich?” “That’s not what I meant.” It’s getting late – The awkward conversation limps to a halt. On the drive home, I recall my emigrant grand-parents, their grave stones – then all the bones of the countless generations buried there in those rolling hills. I thought of the different worlds they left behind, and how mine might appear to them if they were alive to see it. Then I recall the name of Lara’s painting - “I celebrate applesauce, happenstance, and circumnavigation. I celebrate this forest which is dark but can be kind” I wonder what I have to celebrate… Bio: Gordana Kokich is a writer, artist and amateur folklorist from Portland, Oregon. Her latest project, To Me There Exists an Egg is a multimedia time-based anthology of autopoietic works that subvert classical definitions of authorship. Deeply influenced by the arcane wisdom of her eastern European roots, Gordana is a thought leader in the neopagan community. She can be found dancing with the Strugotsky brothers, adding new entries to Milorad Pavic's Khazar Dictionary or writing love letters to Sophia Parnok. She has been a guest contributor for God's and Radicals and Plant Healer Magazine. www.modrodnovery.com
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