remembering a day i had in portland

I read this in my journal, and it reminded of a good day. it's not crazy, creepily, disgustingly, or pathetically personal, so whatever. feast your eyes upon restlessness!

"What a colorful coffee shop, filled with your typical 'progressive, culturally aware, arrogant in their proclamation of compassion for humanity and free trade, pseudo whatevers'. I wonder how close I come to fitting in, or am I failing in my attempts to blend into to the local grid (organic grit). Are there Orange trees growing out of shoes, and am I filling the air with the aroma of orange blossoms? We like to pride ourselves on an intellect (we hope to have) that we prefer to attain on our own time, we want to smell like the old pages of a Foucault book. Books and Vinyl, it's nothing unique, it just feels a little more pure. The effort and the search for origin and tradition, although, we are all mirroring something we saw somewhere. Can you pick out the honest ones?
"death to everyone" (this must refer to the music I was listening to while I wrote this)
I'm thankful that my eyes and heart don't ignore the hurt, and I'm thankful for the God send distraction and facade of happiness that only becomes real with love. I suppose that heartbreak validates any passing euphoria. The miracle of a good day."

I started a new book called "The Partly Cloudy Patriot", it's by Sarah Vowell. This is the second book of hers I've read. She's a good, light, historically informative read. She's obsessed with Lincoln, and has a bottomless vault of information concerning American Presidents.