Originally posted on July 26, then removed so as not to alienate potential sources during my final weeks of employ at the Mercury. Reposted August 12.
Flickr photo by dougtone
I decided today to finalize my plans somewhat: I’m moving out of my apartment on August 31. It’s too big for me, really, and I’m tired of living on West Burnside. But there’s a bigger reason: I’m feeling a pull to move on, one that I haven’t felt since the tumultuous but exhilarating six weeks after the end of college.
Will I be moving across the river, or across the country? I have no idea. It depends on what I hear about on the job front, and a few other personal factors. But there’s nothing in particular keeping me in Portland, save a couple close friends and some extraordinary views. For more than two years Portland has been a nice warm incubator, providing diversions and serenity in equal doses while I figured out who I wanted to be. But now the draw to meet people, work hard and be relevant is starting to outweigh the pleasures of Portland.
There’s a lot of moaning about how there “aren’t any jobs,” and how journalists in particular better pack up their shit and get a new career and learn how to function like normal, despondent, post-recession adults. I call hooey on that, perhaps because I’m young and idiotic but mostly because I have a hunch that by completely ignoring any trace of defeatism I can shoulder my way into the industry. It’s not the sixties anymore, when my father was flying around gratis on Pan Am, walking onto James Bond sets and holding Papa Doc accountable. My replicating that is about as likely as me getting a cadre of rosy-cheeked Portland hipster friends, going to house shows and eating a lot of brunch. Not gonna fly.
But there’s always a chance to pick up my body and make it move in new circles, break out of a post-grad routine and relentlessly introduce myself, go kick up some dust in some part of the country.
Where do I see myself in ten years? Potential employers ask. Well, I’d like to be writing more long-form nonfiction, traveling around with a good deal of community rootedness under my belt. Very well. Where do I see myself in six months?
I have no idea. But I also had no idea when I was sitting on a plane over the Atlantic, reading East of Eden a week before graduation, peering into Limbo. And that got me here, and worked out pretty well.