Portland Spring

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

This is not relevant to anything. I wrote it when I lived in Oakland about 12 years ago.

Spring is my favorite season in Portland.  It's no season at all
here.

At home the air is weighty with the vapors of plants exploding into
a fury of reproduction, ripe with precipitation, reeking of the
human and animal and horticultural frenzy of lust for EVERYTHING
that takes over the inhabitants of the little rainy city.  The area
is covered in a blanket so green that it seethes, it gives one
little orgasms of greenness from looking at it and walking through
it.  Plum and cherry trees are thick with large pink and white
blossoms which drip to the sidewalk with the weight of their scent,
scent that buffets Portlandians on their way to and from work or
play or errands.  The famous roses have commenced opening and the
gardens are crowded with tourists from Japan, from Russia and
Germany and from the whole rest of the world, amazing locals that
there are so many rose fanciers that would seek out Portland and
insist that the gardens are so extraordinary as to be worth it.  And
there are rhododendrons in all the variety of colors and buzzing
with an assortment of insects.  The streetwashers every morning
leave the sidewalks steaming in the slanting sun, and anyone
lucky/unlucky enough to have business downtown at that time of day gets to watch the sun rise over the river and the bridges whle the espresso vendors set up and add the aroma of their wares to the
overall stench of Portland.