The notion of living in Portland hovers at the edge of my thoughts like an animated cloud. It’s one of the few places in the United States where I feel an intense sense of community. Had one of my very best readings here this evening, at Powell’s. A cold front had settled in, and my breath steamed in the damp air, but the moon was up and people coalesced in the folding chairs to hear tales of Kathmandu. There’s intelligence here. It’s not the biggest city, and it’s not the most cosmopolitan city, but it’s a great place with great people and by God I love the beer.

Lots of friends showed up, and plenty of people I didn’t know. A few Nepalis, too, who clearly dug Snake Lake. My old friend Flora, a brilliant poet who was my next door neighbor in Santa Cruz when I was 22. William Burroughs came to stay with her from time to time. Her son Charlie was 10; he’s 44 now. My pals David and Pearl, who I met when we were visual artists in Santa Barbara. It made America’s West Coast feel like a self-contained universe, a snakes-and-ladders ride I’ve played again and again these past 36 years, since that long-ago Summer afternoon when I roared through the Waldo Tunnel and into the picture postcard of my dreams.

All of these people moving together and moving apart. All of us navigating through time and space with the flimsiest of compasses. And me among them, writing my books and drinking my beers. Like Billy Pilgrim, who has come unstuck in time. Astounded by the knowledge that the lights must go out someday. It made me realize that what the Buddha taught is true: The only thing that matters, moment to moment, is how you feel in the moment.  This mad scramble of moments that supposedly all happen at the very same instant, regardless of our illusions about space and time. And at this moment I feel good.