We seem to have inadvertently inaugurated a form, here, which is to say the article about other people writing about Portland. (And we’re now one more chamber down the nautilus, but OK. Enough already.)
But we–like the English majors we actually aren’t–are going to go ahead and say our successors are doing a creative misprision of our real intentions, but big time (i.e., “a misunderstanding that feels like understanding, like when your hands are so cold they seem to burn when you clap them.”)
Because when the writers of America said, “I love you,” what we were really saying was, “I love you, too.”
Willamette Week, this week, is instead being a coy mistress about it, wondering if the Right Coast is wooing us right. When New York compliments Portland on its sensuous lips, the WW replies, “Don’t you understand anything? Our beauty is rather in the graceful curve of our neck, our downcast eyes, and of course our intelligent slouch.” And we (the whole Fort Saint Davids crew) are now feeling bad about what we started. Because come on, now, there.
So we’re writing right now from our suddenly autumnal rooftop East Coast offices in NY. We’re writing back to the tree-nestled Pacific Northwest offices to say forget about it. We’re gonna let the flyover be our condom and we’re totally gonna do it, and we’re not going to be too drunk to perform this time. So don’t go southing this relationship before it even starts.
Here’s fractal meta-valentine to show you we mean it:
That’s how serious.
Although: fair warning: we look terrible in the morning, and we’re way too chatty for 7 a.m., and we’re glad you wear contacts so you can’t see our hair all fucked up. Because it will be.