NSP Meditations

A Gift of Agates and Meth

NSP Meditations, Poetry

I’m writing a letter at a table in a dive bar.

It’s high noon on a weekday.

A B-Western plays on television.

The Doors play on the jukebox.

Gamblers gamble at slots.

A man bolts into the bar, a local tweaker.

He’s tweaking.

We know each other. He’s asked about writing. He once told me a priceless Oregon dog story that I used in a book.

He keeps a journal and writes fantasy stories.

He shows me some chapters on his phone. He shows me where he writes at home.

He never writes when tweaking.

He started using again.

He doesn’t tell me that.

But he’s sitting right across from and I know enough to know. He knows I know and our eyes don’t meet.

He presents a folded napkin to me.

He unfolds it and reveals agates, collected that very morning while tweaking.

I also see two tiny packets of something. He doesn’t comment on them.

Meth?

Impossible.

No one gives meth to someone writing a letter in a dive bar.

Maybe someone just did.

He thanks me for always talking to him. I thank him for the agates. He leaves. He’s always respectful of my time when I write at the table, which is every time I’m here.

I place the agates on a shelf of the lending library behind me.

I toss the tiny packets in the garbage without opening them up.

I start writing again, but not the letter.

Writing Workshop in Astoria March, 7

NSP Meditations, Writing ,

Writers:

On Saturday, March 7, I will teach a writing workshop at our usual spot in Astoria. The workshop is called “Firing Up Your Writing Project” and the idea is to take whatever writing project you are working on (or contemplating) and move it forward.

We will sit around a table, think, write, talk, share, pitch, laugh, listen. We will complete exercises in fiction and nonfiction that will help stimulate your creativity and discover new ways to fire up your project. Sometimes writing one sentence in practice or hearing a tidbit of discussion can help unlock the magic.

I feel it essential for writers with projects in mind or development to come together in a relaxed setting, write for writing’s sake and articulate your passion for your project. I believe it helps writers finish and build a community for the projects. It’s also how we make new friends.

The workshop will run from 1-3:30 p.m. And hopefully we can have a little social time afterward.

The cost is $50.

Let me know if you are interested. The class caps at ten writers.

Matt

Givin’ the New Year’s Finger in the Sand

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches

On New Year’s Day I hunted for beaverwood at the wrack line. A couple choice cuts here and there and I stuffed my pockets and shouldered the bigger pieces. It was early morning and a white ocean creamed in at low tide. I was thinking about someone dear lost to me.

A design in the sand arrested my attention. I headed toward it. In short order, I beheld a drawing of a hand giving The Finger, but also with a dash of smirky smile at the bottom of the design. What a New Year’s Day find!

In my previous life as a teacher, a photograph of this drawing would have prompted an immediate lesson in creative writing or philosophy for my students.

I leave it up to you and invite your interpretations. Is the Finger Giver angry? Breaking through, finally done with it all, and transcending? Giving it to someone in particular or the world in general?

Man or woman or something else? Saying a hearty goodbye to 2019?

It is instructive that the Finger was pointed toward land, but I imagine a few people might give the Finger to the ocean because the ocean took the lives of a loved one. That’s not the ocean’s fault. That’s a misplaced Finger in my mind.

Someone was on the beach well before me, at dawn, maybe in the dark, maybe at the stroke of midnight, maybe elated, maybe on meth, maybe sober, maybe distressed beyond belief, and etched this Finger in the sand. I can only hope the etching somehow helped.

Taking Stock of 2019

NSP Meditations

At the end of the year I always like to take stock of the various events and accomplishments in my life that unfolded. I guess you might call it a list. I believe the activity orders my mind and prepares me for the upcoming year.

I wrote and published two books. I worked on two others for possible publication in 2020.

I oversaw the production of two other Nestucca Spit Press books.

I provided my author coach services for nine writers.

I wrote around 100 personal letters.

I wrote well to cure the disease of mass incarceration in my country.

I posted approximately 200 times on the Meditations Blog.

I met an incredible person from Florida, an incredible person from Portland, and kept someone incredible living on the Central Oregon Coast in my life.

I tried and failed at reestablishing a special friendship with someone dear to me.

I reunited with my fifth grade teacher.

I built approximately 100 driftwood forts.

I got to know Reedsport really well.

I worked a construction job for four months and thoroughly enjoyed it.

I worked as an ad designer for a newspaper for three months and learned a lot.

I collaborated to produce 12 episodes of the Secret Coast Radio podcast.

I read approximately 125 books.

I walked the beach almost every morning I was in residence at the beach.

I taught three writing workshops.

I deepened the special friendships in my life.

I became friends with a chipmunk and a squirrel.

I spent more time with my parents than any other year of my adult life.

I collected approximately 800 pieces of beaverwood.

I reconnected with an old friend with Oregon City roots.

I became part of an art collective.

I had my first art show.

I always took the high road.

I broke even financially, but enriched myself substantially in the spiritual ledger.

I helped people.

RV Park Christmas (Part 10)

Fiction, NSP Meditations

Who were these people? Daisy sensed she had occasionally run across them as patients in the hospital, but now she was living among them.

Some never seemed to leave their rigs.

Some limped, used canes, walkers, staffs.

Several didn’t have vehicles.

Some had blanched faces.

Some barely had a face.

Those with dogs seemed happy.

Many were grossly overweight.

Many flew tattered American flags.

Most watched Fox News all day.

Daisy could tell some were addled in one way or another.

They were all friendly, but there was no community.

There was no bulletin board advertising park events

because there were no park events.

One afternoon, Daisy returned from the beach and a resident in a mobility scooter was driving around in a tight circle, over and over again. She went up to him and he stopped. They talked. She adjusted something on the back of the scooter and he put it in gear and began to drive forward. He thanked her. Daisy got a kick out of it. Helping him felt good. Just how long would he have driven around in circles had she not come along.

That was how it started.

Daisy drove Roy to get laid in Bandon.

George to the VA hospital in Roseburg.

Terry to the dentist, Lorenzo to the crabbing pier.

She walked their dogs when they couldn’t walk.

She picked up oxygen tanks, picked up groceries.

She helped change a truck battery.

She washed two trucks.

She loved doing it. It was effortless effort.

She never let on she was a nurse. This is why I became a nurse…thought Daisy, but this isn’t nursing. This is why I got into nursing and then I became a nurse and it ruined it all.

It was Christmas Eve and a spectacularly clear night, The stars were out. Daisy had a fire going and she pulled up a plastic lawn chair rescued from inside a hedge. She lit a cigarette and sipped a stout. Lorenzo came over with his dog. Daisy had discovered he was the saxophone player. She invited him to retrieve his saxophone, join her around the fire, and play some Christmas songs.

One simple invitation at Christmas can change a lot.

Lorenzo accepted. He began playing and Daisy tried to sing along. She goofed up the words and made up her own lyrics, some of them bawdy. Lorenzo cracked up a few times but kept playing.

George puttered over in his scooter with a jug of Gallo red. He parked near the fire and offered wine. Daisy sprinted to her rig for some Christmas mugs. Wine was shared. They toasted to Christmas.

It was a party of three for 30 minutes. A party of three for 30 minutes on Christmas Eve can change a lot.

As Daisy and George sipped wine, she entertained ideas for potlucks and game nights in the laundry room. Maybe a movie night there, too! Anything to encourage and facilitate face-to-face interaction, anything to get them out of their rigs and away from watching Fox News.

Sure, some ideas would fail. But some might succeed.

George and Lorenzo called it a night. It was 7:30. Daisy retired to the Vixen and searched Lorna’s VHS collection for a Christmas movie. Nothing, nothing, nothing, then White Christmas. Daisy laughed. What a cliche! She put the movie on, crawled into her bag, and cracked open another stout.

Tomorrow was Christmas Day. Daisy would get up at first light, get a jog in. It might rain a bit, then clear up. The sun might show and maybe a rainbow would appear. Either way, Daisy would get straight to work helping residents in the park. She imagined there would be a lot to do on Christmas Day. There was a lot to do every day, everywhere.

Considerations from Oregon City

NSP Meditations, Pioneer Pride

I take a walk around Clackamette Park on a cloudy December morning and admire the boatless rivers. I stop near the confluence, near a large pile of cottonwoods blown up there by a flood. A shiny purple bag on the ground arrests my attention. Resting near the bag, a syringe. I consider the syringe and its provenance. I consider the syringes encountered everywhere I go: beaches, woods, rivers, streams, streets, sidewalks, parking lots, parks, trails. I consider what this might mean for American culture.

An elderly man spooks me out of my consideration of the abandoned syringe. He has materialized from the standing cottonwoods, the ones with exquisite beaver gnawings, the ones about ready to fall. He says “Merry Christmas” in a Russian accent. I say “Merry Christmas” to him. He moves on. I watch him walk over the purple bag and syringe and stop at the river’s edge. He urinates into the river and then kneels over and washes his hands. I move along and talk to squirrels and geese.

At the Promenade later, I watch a lone smokestack puff smoke or steam or whatever it is. Two Japanese tourists snap photographs of the falls and the sprawling and spellbinding industrial site. The Elevator beckons me to ride, but I don’t have time, although I still have my lifetime pass somewhere among my memorabilia, things from my past that I would dearly love to have around me again. I have lived some great stories on this Promenade. I have been in love with someone here, many, many years ago. It’s a great place to walk and talk with someone you love.

I find another syringe.

I see a transient wearing a striped poncho standing on a rock, talking loudly to himself. He yells something to me. I wave and keep walking. I see the I-205 bridge, easily the ugliest bridge in Oregon, one without a shred of grace. In its foreground, I see the old Conde McCullough bridge, one of the most beautiful, graceful bridges in Oregon. I consider the contrasts between these two bridges and what it reveals about American culture.

The historic houses are decorated for Christmas. They get me in the mood.

What a place to hold a writing workshop, on this Promenade! The benches are perfect for writing.

Time to go meet an old Oregon City acquaintance in a dive Oregon City bar. Oregon City is still classic Oregon Tavern Age country and I hope a few of these joints will always remain.

One day, I hope to bring out my book about growing up in Oregon City in the 70s and 80s. I’ve got about 15,000 words on it so far, but it feels a bit formless. More visits to this unique Oregon town will help firm it up.

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