To Eugene

A town that I loved

Hi there.

Today I’m sharing a poem to the town of Eugene I’ve called home for the past three years. Tomorrow I’m starting to move away from it.

Moving is hard. In major life transitions like these, the losses coexist with the opportunities, which can make it hard to understand and express how I feel about them all coming together.

Goodbyes are hard. The idea of an ending puts pressure on me to make it count, to commemorate in a way that honors all a relationship — be it with a person or place — has been.

Writing is one way I choose to process what someone means to me. I find it offers a greater sense of clarity and finality than I could in face-to-face conversation. Ultimately, no verbal expression or poem can fully capture an experience — but there’s sport in the attempt.

Now I present my love letter to Eugene, which may say as much about my experience of this place as the place itself. For those who live here, I hope you find something to relate to. For those who don’t, I hope you find something to arouse your curiosity, to move you or make you chuckle at this creatively-minded college town that’s truly like nowhere else in the world.

Either way, I welcome your feedback in the comments. What does Eugene mean to you? What most strikes your curiosity about this (admittedly biased) snapshot?

Enjoy.

To Eugene:

You are a Vortex. 
A confluence of energies where Willamette forks meet the McKenzie
at the southern reach of the valley,
Cradling smog from the north and smoke from the east.

You are where Deadheads go to retire 
A hippie conclave surrounded by nature to inspire.
You are creatively saturated, 
with many more talented acts than sign-up slots at the open mics,
Like a sponge that's taken on a touch too much tie dye 
And stains counters with rainbow splotches when left out to dry. 

You are a crossroads of new-age, anarchist, and college football types 
Hybridizing ideas beside the West Coast Amtrak lines. 
You are a fertile clusterf*** of utopian thinking run amok
Where a curious drifter could stop in for a weekend festival and then get stuck, 
Lured by event postings that read like grab-bag mad-libs of spiritual fads,
And hooked on cuddle puddles at the end of ecstatic dance.

You are the long strange wake of a prank
Ken Kesey once pulled on this red state.
You are the life of the country fair 
Running about 15 minutes late.

You are full moon sauna song circles
and everyone who's comfortable being naked around strangers is invited.
You are practicing your fire dancing for the circus. 
You are inventing your own board game, called three-player chess.

You are where permaculture gardens meet Nike-sponsored track runs,
Where strip-mined bike frames rust in the rain 
and cottonwood swamps bake in the sun. 
You are gleaming red poison oak and juice-swollen blackberries.
You are kickass Farmers markets.
You are potlucks where people bring real food. 
You are late summer fruit trees growing by the sidewalk in abundance. 
You are cheaper at the Grocery Outlet than you are at Sundance. 

You are the firs at Spencer Butte,
the oaks at Mount Pisgah,
the herons at Alton Baker,
the deer in the South Hills, 
the beavers at Delta Ponds,
the ducks at Autzen stadium, 
the rats at John Henry's,
the turkeys smoking atop Skinner Butte, 
and the squirrels squashed down Willamette. 

You are concerts at the Wow, McDonald, and Cuthbert 
You are riding down the river in a tube 
until you bump your ass on the rapids and get butt hurt.
You are leather-clad musicians with Whitaker sleaze
Driving beater cars to raid little free pantries. 
You are just queer enough to make San Francisco sneeze.

You are the edible weeds of a gift economy
Growing through the cracks of capitalist authority. 
You are rewilding suburban alleys. 

You are spiritual but not religious.
You are gearing up for the next Ayahuasca ceremony.
You are pretty burned out on exploring polyamory.
You are training to become a psilocybin facilitator 
And most of your studies are taking heroic doses in the forest.
You are cacao drunk, and it feels so good 
You are Friendly, and not just the neighborhood.

You are more emotionally authentic 
than the rest of the country would lead me to expect,
But you won't stop fucking talking about being present 
And that pisses me off a little bit, in this present moment. 

You are fields of homegrown dreams. 
You are a haven for fairies, witches, pirates, and wizards. 
You have something in the water for lovers of fantasy.  

You are where I discovered community
In all its trials and triumphs,
The giddy free rides and debilitating slumps. 
Now you are where I must leave. 
Cause you were always a bit too good to believe. 
How I evolved here is to your credit. 
When waters must part it’s no one’s fault, 
Except the Earth who shaped us to begin with. 

Updates

I’m now offering my creative writing services on the freelancing site Fiverr! My two offerings are (1) custom poems & letters to suit any occassion, and (2) copywriting for values-driven businesses and creators, especially in the eco and wellness spaces.

If you’re a farmer, herbalist, artist, healer, educator, or small business owner, I can help you clarify and elevate your mission with copy that feels true to your voice and speaks clearly to your audience. I’ll listen between the lines to create about pages, newsletters, blog posts, etc. that you can feel proud of.

I offer:

• Thoughtful editing and copy review
• Interviews to distill your mission, bio, or offerings
• Website, outreach, and about page support
• Heartfelt storytelling that honors your work and values

Rates: $35/hr
Also open to trades — especially with web designers, programmers, social media strategists, and anyone experienced setting up online shops.

Free half-hour consult to see if we’re a good fit.

Let’s co-create something beautiful.

Reach out via jeffreemorel@proton.me if this calls to you.