1967

This was an important, indeed incredible, year for me. I dropped out of my PhD program at the Univ of Oregon and moved to Portland, to see if I could "become a writer." Coming with me, to my shocked delight, was my love interest at the time, a graduate student on full scholarship who gave it up to come with me and take a shit job so I'd have more time to write. Incredible! (My soul mate, I thought, before she came out as a lesbian.)

We moved into an apartment on Mississippi Ave. Today, a very hip area of Portland. Then a mostly black, low rent district. Across the street, a house of ill repute (I know from men coming across the street to the wrong place.) Down the way, an after-hours cafe where booze was served in coffee cups and where police made 3 and 4 a.m. rounds and let everybody be (payoff, I assume). And I took a part-time job and focused are writing literary short stories for art and journalistic features for money.

The transition took a year but was successful. I began publishing both modes regularly. Hence, this apartment has great personal meaning for me, the place where I became a writer. I'll never forget 1967-8.



And almost half a century later, another look at this time of my life: