I ask Heffe if he is up for some dumpster diving.  'Dumpster
Diving' is a term Mushroom Mat taught me on one of my earlier 
Kerouacian tours of freeway on ramps.  Rays of sun were warming my 
face as I leaned against the sun-soaked concrete barrier next to a
mid-California on-ramp.  Mushroom Mat and I had been joined by a 
lanky speed freak named Stayhigh at our last exit; together, we rode
in a pick-up to our current exit.  After six hours of sunshine and 
pot smoked from Stayhigh's glass crack pipe Stayhigh said it's his 
time for some D'n'D.  After Stayhigh had left, Mushroom Mat told me 
how - on the excess of others and a few dumpster diving skills - you
can survive.  But, Heffe and I are not looking for food tonight.
	Tonight, I hope to find heavy things: heavy garbage is always
better than white-trashy stuff.  Heffe and I talk about the things, 
garbage, and stuff we seek.  We are never specific: like love, 
unrealistic standards lead to dissatisfaction.  Garbage and love, love
of garbage, and garbage love fill my head as we cruise the industrial
areas of Portland.
	Hawthorne Bridge shelters about four yielding dumpsters.  A 
truck pulls up to a twelve foot high dumpster; a figure in a heavy 
work jacket--Carhart--knit cap, and gloves climbs into the open top 
and returns with a few 2x4's: Heffe is in the truck, I am in the knit 
cap.  Heffe says "Stock wood," as I jump in the cab.  Our next stop is 
outside of a sweatshop: fabric scraps.  Grabbing chunks of felt, I 
visualize felt covered furniture.  Underneath the felt lies a bonus 
item: Playboy's lingerie issue.  A bit tattered, it finds its way into 
the truck; I hope to cover the walls of my basement/workshop with smut.  
I'm not sure how my roommates will respond to a tribute to the 70's 
mural: I'll have to call it art.
	Some call garbage art, stuff things, junk creative, but I know 
it is still garbage.
	Next, we hit a "promotional-products" warehouse dumpster.  
Heffe finds industrial yellow spray paint and some cans of quick drying 
paint.  This dumpster is an old stand-by, but I don't find anything 
heavy here.
	With the truck half-full, we head to the Northwest warehouse 
district with intentions of taking care of the half-empty section of the 
truck.
	Listening to grunge - we have a right: we live in Portland - we 
scout the areas near the tracks.  All we find are a stack of firebricks 
near a brewery.  I think of Andre Caro's brick sculpture: in the 70's he 
made a line of fire bricks across a gallery and called it minimal.  2am: 
I'm ready to go home: home is a place to sleep: jumbled thoughts.  Ready 
to quit.
	Suddenly, my eyes pop open.  Pinch me!  Two overflowing dumpsters 
on a dead-end street.  One wood, the other junk.  I see a chain and 
padlock hold the lid of the semi-truck-trailer-size junk bin shut, so I 
begin to sift through the wood pile.  Economy passes through my mind and 
how Henry Thouroe built his house for $8.73 on a little pond called 
Walden; fuck you Henry,: I'm building my bed outta this wood I'm getting 
fer free.  As I consider my spiritual battle with Henry, I hear his ghost 
shouting at me.  I turn to realize Heffe is making the ruckus: a multi-
colored bundle of wires the size of my body is tossed out of the junk 
dumpster at me.
	Heffe has managed to prop the dumpster lid open as far as the 
chain would allow: two feet.  I climb the ladder on the outside of the 
dumpster and see the trash compactor scene from Star Wars.  Every now and 
then, a 6'4" red headed serpent surfaces and then dives out of site.  
Heffe finds a lot of shiny brand-new door knobs: they are heavy.