Matt Love

I am barbecuing a $14 roast for Elmer in the fire pit. He’s barking at me as I tend to his feast. He knows what’s coming.

Fourteen dollars you say? Yes. Why not for this great husky. We hit the bay beach at dawn and then hiked three miles in the woods along the South Slough. We ran the last mile of the trail and I feel us getting stronger every day.

I’ll barbecue fresh tuna for me later. Naturally, Elmer will get a hunk.

The poetry books arrived from the printer. They turned out so much better than I anticipated. Now, getting them out there.

I rejoined Facebook after a three-year hiatus for one reason: so I could find my Turkish girlfriend from 1992-93 and send her the poem I wrote about us that is included in the book. So far, I have been unable to track her down.

I’ve nearly finished the first pass at the collection of essays about homelessness in Oregon. It’s around 65k words and I’ve been trimming a lot and trying to clean up tense issues. Once this book comes out in the spring, that’s it for this subject as far as writing goes.

Someone actually returned a call the other day.

One of the most important people of my life refuses to respond to my communications. She has utterly lost her way in life and will not accept any communication that suggests this. What potential there was for her. Squandered. Can it be reclaimed? Doubtful. It would require getting off her ass and moving into the real world, not the phony digital one.

Chainsaws in the distance. An evil leaf blower, too.

There is exactly one person I want to read the poetry book.

The poetry mania has subsided, although I did write one yesterday about a waitress who told me she stands her five kids in the corner when they misbehave. Surely I wrote the only poem in the history of American literature on such a topic.

I barbecued the roast and fed Elmer. He’s resting in his dirt fort at the back gate, surveying the street, waiting for action. The dog or deer kind, not crazy fucked up homeless people who walk or bicycle past three times a day.

I am lounging on the patio in the recliner found for free down the block. Quite possibly the most comfortable chair I’ve ever owned.

A sunny and breezy afternoon in Coos Bay.

I am fasting—less than 24 hours to go.

Elmer is prowling the back yard. Feral cats lurking in the brush behind the fence continue to vex him.

We had a glorious walk at the secret beach this morning. No one there. That was after a walk to the boat ramp and onto the bay beach to watch the sunrise. Not a single encounter with the homeless because several weeks ago private property owners hired a brush cutter to limb up the willows. They also removed mountains of garbage. The city and county had no role in this effort. So the storytelling potential about homelessness at the now former encampment is gone, and I don’t mind one bit.

The book of poetry is at the printer. Book number 34. I’m currently revising book 35, a collection of my essays about homelessness written over roughly the last decade. That book will come out in the spring of next year and will end my writing about homelessness. It’s time to move on although my ad hoc assistance and advocacy will continue.

I’ve gained new energy on the 90s teaching novel project and it was the result of reading an agonizing and inadequate memoir by the Screaming Trees lead singer Mark Lanegan. Sing Backwards and Weep was published in 2020. He died in Ireland in 2024. We were exactly the same age. I always loved the band and saw them in their heyday of the early 90s when I was living in Portland, teaching, and live music was my main social activity. I really loved his solo records. It was the voice most of all.

The memoir is fatiguing in its chronicling his prodigious drug abuse, violence, and sheer debauchery. There isn’t a single lyric of any of his songs. Not one! Why omit the most important thing of your life? Your songs. Why no discography or any photos? Strange editorial decisions. He knew all the big time rock stars from Seattle and the memoir inspired me because the character of my novel is the total antithesis of Lanegan’s life. I hadn’t figured out how to construct this character but I do now.

I was never in that 90s PNW scene. I was a spectator and a fan. My take on the scenesters then and after reading Lanegan’s book is that most of them were astonishingly stupid. No education whatsoever. Most of the music from that era reflected that. Not all, but most and listened to all of it. I saw it live.

I found the memoir and random at the library and was shocked by its appearance. I didn’t know he had written a memoir. The style is raw and untutored and I dug it. Still, way too many drug encounters with the depraved and famous. They shed nothing on why he was such a terrible addict and human being, which he freely admitted.

My novel’s character will have known him and indeed most of the rock stars from Seattle. He escaped the scene and lived. Many died then, and like Lanegan, prematurely, years later from the lifestyle.

The last peas from the garden are almost ready to harvest. The garden turned out okay and I definitely know what to plant and not plant next year.

I attended two cultural events in Coos Bay in recent weeks. I forced myself to get out into my community and plan more of this in the coming months.

More strange and inexplicable happenings in the neighborhood. I’ve just about stopped writing them up.

I carved a Jack O lantern this morning. It turned out a little ragged but it brought me joy. I didn’t have a single trick or treater last year.

I still plan on seeing the Redwoods this fall.

I still wait to hear from people from my past that I reached out to.

Time to go hit the beach with Elmer.