3 . Leaving Portland wenn einer fortgeht , muss er den Hu mit den Muscheln , die er sommer u '' ber gesammelt hat , ins Meer werfen und fahren mit wehendem Haar , . ............ . ........... Herz , Anker ud Kreuz , und fahren mit wehenden Haar Dann wird er wiederkommen . Wann ? Fag nicht when you leave , you must throw your hat full of shells collected in Summer into the sea , and leave flapping your hairs in the wind . . ....... then is it when ? you will to come back , don ' t ask about it . One or 2 days before I left Portland the lines of a poem flashed across my mind lingering on . The lines were a part of the poem titled ' Lieder von einer Insel ' of Bachmann . a German poet . It was in the evening after sunset . Then I was sensing Autumn creeping closer to me sitting slantly on the red - bricked stairs of the Pioneer Square , empty and calm . Nobody except me was there . Disappeared youths puffing up with their naked upper bodies . Out of sight were children jumping with pigeons and their mother , too . What invoked the lines kept somewhere in me ? Perhaps or not , the circle - shaped square , empty and calm , resembling at a glance an amphitheatre in the old city state of Greece might be the cause of it . Just prior to it was my heart beating quick at the idea of the Aire performance scheduled held the day after tomorrow . Sitting alone there I was picturing in my head myself on the stage as a special guest to introduce Morning Dews . What is more , my mind even grew restless at the very message from Lau which I had read just before : < Hi , Gohk ! We will have a rehearsal on Friday , September 14 in the afternoon so that you can meet the singer and work with her on Morning Dews . Abrazos ! Lau > At the Pioneer Square in spite if myself I felt heart - rended to see the void square ! Strangely enough , for a moment the sight of the scenery began to drive me to get more and more conscious of the situation in advance where in a few days I would be . As you know , in a couple of days or so , with the curtain down of the Aire performance , I would have to leave Portland . It was at the silent moment that the lines of the poem occurred to me . But I didnt know why . The very deep emptiness , it was only inferred , awoke me to a sense of what I ought to be ? Possibly what the unusual moment made me aware of the vanity of a situation which I , intoxicated , was caught in . Wake up and return to what you are . . What you believe now you are is not you in real , but an illusion . It ' s just a shadow of what you wish to be . You , Gohk ! ' You are not a duke well known to the world , nor a hero of sturdy build . ' Haven ' t you heard of broad - shouldered American Indian youths , with two eyes stable in horizontal balance , and with strong skin hardened by the atmosphere above the river running through the prairie ? You are not such a brave warrior . You are just a nameless traveller pursuing a dream to write small poetic proses which at most you could be good at . And nothing more . Then , how would such a humble man have a desire heart to heart to come still closer to a bailaora , one of the most beloved in Portland ! Free yourself from such a daydream . Throw it into the Willamette with the pebbles of reminiscence in summer in the pocket of the mind ! Leaving Portland , I was thinking of the poem of Bachmann several times . And I got it lingering on in the mouth . So did I at the moment when I was boarding a Greyhound bound for Atlanta 5 or 6 days distant by bus , And at the moment of not only passing through the black Steel Bridge across the Willamette river , but also running along the straight line of the road with the city left behind , I even recited two lines of the poem . ' Take off and throw away into the river your hat full of shells collected in summer , and leave fluttering your hairs '. With Spocane of Washinton behind , when we are running out of the State , forests and river began to get less and more obscure in the distance to just a couple of small clods of painting pigment . When we were running into an expanse of Savannah plain , with great rocks and sand field here and there in it , it began to get dark . Soon the view out through the window of the running bus were beginning to be buried under the black darkness . And together with it the sweet blackberries at the opposite bank of the Willamette , the bright smiles of Lau , and the guitar rhythm of Aire performance were running one by one much farther away into the darkness . Greyhound stopped for a short time in the city of Billing , North Dacoda and began to gain in speed under the cover of deeper darkness . It was silent in the bus . Half or so of the seats was left vacant and passengers seemed to keep their mouths shut . Not a sound in the exception of the soft engine noise the running bus was making . I felt rather comfortable at the engine sound as if listening to Bach ' s unaccompanied Cello sonata . The sound was never noisy to me . It even called back to my mind the intoxicating things of the past summer in Portland . In the darkness did come in and out of sight the dim images of the downtown of Portland , which I visited twice one in 1999 and the other in 2001 , but in either case left it saying nothing at the end of the summer . The city was rich in the sunlight with the deep blue sky high above , but the shadow of it was thick and dark . Bathtubes in the rooms of Days Inn hotel were ivory - white in contrast to the gloomy eyes of Mexican female part - time employees working for the hotel with no visa , The applauses of spectators at the Aire concert were bright with big laughters compared with the dark and unstable faces of the alcoholic homeless standing in a line at a charity party held in Washington Park . In a sense , the city seemed to be impressive in that it showed a sharp contrast of light and the shadow in the center of the downtown . On reflection , when I was approaching the Portland aboard Greyhound it was the exotic top of Amtrek station reminding a bell tower of the traditional Islamic church that caught my eyes through the bus window at the first time . Then the sky above was brilliant with no indications of cloud . Conversely inside of Joyce hostel was dimly - lighted the timeworn corridor and gloomy was the ｅxpressionless of the counter clerk . And the Willamette enjoyed the bright sunlights pouring down on the surface of the river in contrast to the dark image of the steel - built Hawthorn bridge over it . Now I throw my eyes out on the lights of a remote city leaning my head against the window . The lines of Bachmann comes again lingering on in my mouth shut : you have to throw your hat full of the shells you collected throughout the summer . What on earth is the city of Portland , which I happened to spend summer twice ? No more for it . Next time will the place be the Time Square of New York which is familiar to me , or the Mediterranean sea side ? No . the Vical lake in Siberia will be possibly the next point ! But how can I forget the pebbles of reminsinces collected in Portland : " you are inspiring ! ", the fascinating words Lau whispered to me , the remote , bitter cry of the cante , the impressive contrast of the brightness and the dark grey of the downtown , the sea - blue eyes of a homeless youth playing an impromptu melody by his guitar ? I love words more than anything else . I am apt so easily to lose myself to certain passages . For example , such are these : ' the handkerchief of nostalgia in eternity flupping toward the deep blue sea ', ' a walking shadow muttering to himself words with no verbal meaning '. ' the first grey of dawn '. ' the beauty of impermanence ', ' autumn sunlights descending diagonally between the boughs of trees by the forest path . ' And I will never forget the right moment when a simple line went home to my heart : ' an art is ardent confession . ' It was Rouault ' s , a French painter . The line of his came to be a surprisingly profound guide to me . Because it hit me at the moment I got stuck in a series of questions : ' Could I write a poetic prose ? , ' how can I get a sort of writing I would be satisfied with ? ', ' what style of writing could I be good at ? ' It was really fortunate for me to meet this guide . Probably without the encounter with the simple and pure words , I couldn ' t have a mind to do write this ! ' Before making my second trip to Portland , last early spring , I got a advice of Rilke , a German poet : ' in order to get a line of poem , you should meet many people , cities and many books . More than anything else , you could recall to your mind the nights of twinkling stars you met on the road . And Furthermore , you will have to do writing at the end of everything '. Until now I do love the poet and a line of a poetic ｅxpression which I read somewhere in a book in Korean of his : ' the blue flame of the soul '. To me the writing is in a sense like the work of sculpture . Sculptors cutting the raw material of marble have a burning desire to have their dreams of images in their minds visualized into a form of art . For this they would often have to go on a long trip to an exotic land and after returning home with the raw mass on their backs keep themselves isolated in their caves , solitary and bitter , to be absorbed in wrestling with it in the poetic sense of touch . That ' s it . To me , as to a sculptor . It is essential for me to go on journey to get the raw material of contemplations for the work of writing . No work of writing without the raw stone of it for it . For me to be on the road is in a sense to grub up the raw material buried somewhere in light and shadow on the road . On the unfamiliar road of prairies of North Dacoda or Minesota my eyes are again turned to the night view outside . The sky above the horizon side is coming down this way to me . Greyhound is dashing more deeply into the darkness . My eyes averted a little upward , I see the numerous stars , listening to them whisper secretly between them . Wow ! beautiful ! All of a sudden I am reminded of ' a night with stars twinkling ', the painting of Van gogh . In spite of myself , the painting gives me a feeling of my soul souring into the cluster of the stars there twinkling , as if they were whispering to me that at the end of this journey with stars no more in sight , be ready to greet the first grey dawn of writing coming neare