Eugene is quite a unique place I am finding.  She is beautiful and green, always ready to grow.  She is a place that accepts both young and old, rich and poor.  There are people asleep on her streets in the cold, then others who walk up and offer them a blanket.  There are shelters and volunteer organizations. There are conversations over coffee, made by anarchist feminists.  The coffee angry, filled with piss and vinegar but the sweet rolls delightfully yummy and buttery.

Okay, on to my next paragraph where one sentence has to connect to the other.  Eugene is filled with art and organic markets, fast food chains, and small businesses.  Her weather is unpredictable as it should be.  One day she will decide to shine her sun, the other day she will rain, the other day she will snow, but nothing will last for long but simply flow from one thing to the next.

And her people dressed in hiking boots and warm jackets, or dressed in armor, or dressed in black covered in tatoos.  Men puttering around with long bushy bears and notebooks trying to find that exact right phrase.  Women with a message and a dream.  Healthy food rules the day and the ever growing of  nature as the moss creeps up the buildings and the grass breaks through the sidewalk.

Moisture and mold are ever present here and some people accept it, letting their lawns overflow and their old homes sink into the ground.  They decorate their houses with colorful Christmas lights and fill their lawns with old tools and discarded cars. Then the others whose houses are neat and tidy with clean lines and wide open windows.  Perfectly manicured lawns and tidy garages. Then all of those people climb on the bus service and head to destinations unknown.

There are little theatres and beautiful athletic clubs recycled and renewed from something else.  This is a place to just be, to make your stand, or go to bed, to read a book or make a difference.

The library is filled with children and homeless. The smell of sweat and stale alcohol mixed with the smells of baby shampoo and sour milk.  They simply pass through each other.  A homeless man spreading his entire existence on a table on a cold day.  A mother breastfeeding her baby in the children’s section. Everyone moving around with each other like quiet cars on a freeway or ships in the night. Whatever silly metaphor you can put to it.

The teenagers and young adults crowd around at the bus stop spitting on the ground and make plans for the weekend.  The trains run through the station and the whistles sound through the night.  The used art shop opens and sells things for a dime.

And the food is wonderful and filled with love. That is the best thing about this place.  You could get lost in the food and pass the day endulging in it.  There is a Japanese restaurant in a basement where armored men reign and get their own tables and camp out in red lit rooms, drinking sake and tea and talk about the fall of the Roman Empire.

How one man owns an old typewriter and hauls it around because the work of typing and getting the equipment to operate is just as lovely as the work that comes out of it.  All of it a sacred, quiet, and worthwhile act.

This is Eugene in all her glory.  I wonder how Thoreau would have seen her.