Personal shrines

When a writer is famous, folks want to know everything about the writer's background. Where s/he grew up, lived, traveled, what s/he read and ate for breakfast. Hero worship, I suppose. But when a writer is not famous, no one gives a damn. Except the writer and perhaps a few friends and/or fans.

In 1967 I dropped out of graduate school to "become a writer", and I did most of this on N. Mississippi Ave. in Portland, a low rent, impoverished area at the time, now the up-and-coming artsy area of Portland, in its phase before gentrification (which already has signs of beginning). But my old poor neighborhood is dear to my heart, especially the duplex we rented and the neighborhood tavern where we hung out, two of the few white customers.

In this tavern, a traumatic experience happened to me, which I use in various disguises both in my novel Kerouac's Scroll and in my posthumous play Oregon Dream. A remarkable, almost surrealistic event in my life, which had great consequences.

Places where transitions like this occur become important in a life. Hence my personal shrines.