Flash II

Two weeks and a year ago, to the day, I was where I am in the picture.

Today, steam rising from manhole covers in Portland means it is cold. Frost on windows means it is cold. Sopping wet gloves knuckling under and freezing means it is cold at least by these standards. It is a dry cold and my five layers to keep out rain mean that I am warm and dry. The corner from Morrison to MLK lets me know to drive slow out of the slide that ensuse.

I don't care about the rest of the day. Felluga Mollamata, a blend of typical Friulian varieties, tasted like blown leaves and tires that held together and did their best on corners. It smelled like petrol and pineapples the way the corner near Burgerville near the convention center did when I got held up by a light. It is Italian German. It is what I like in wine: crisp, precise, talkative and intelligent.

I don't care about the rest of the day. A conversation with my father that felt like an appreciated belch at the Thanksgiving table.

I don't care about the rest of the day. A mantra now with pizza, porcini and pomodoro.

I don't care about the rest of the day. Soundtrack and layout. Finding music for a place and placing words and images.

My name is Jeffrey Jassmond and I was either grown in the shade or the sun. My skin is dry and a new day comes tomorrow, despite the frost.