I’ve written about this before, but a certain phenomenon that has happened to me multiple times in the midst of writing projects is happening again and it compels me to consider its possible significance.

I don’t know if this has happened to other writers. I’ve never read about it or had a conversation with a writer on this phenomenon.

The phenomenon is: I begin writing on a subject, and then I immediately begin randomly encountering books, music and people related to the subject and these encounters always work their way into the project. It occurred during writing books about Astoria, rain, dogs, the Portland Trail Blazers and the Yaquina Bay Bridge.

It’s happening now with the writing of a Christmas tale where communism is involved.

Everywhere I look I discover literature related to socialism, labor unions and communism. For example, today in two street libraries, I found an obscure history of the Russian Revolution and a memoir about a priest administering to political prisoners in the Gulag. Two days ago, in another street library, I found an incredible collection of short stories called Love of Worker Bees by Alexandra Kollontai, a contemporary and colleague of Lenin and Trotsky who was cast out via sexism after the revolution and went onto some notoriety as a writer. And then two months, I came across the writing of Rachel Kushner and one of her novels, The Flamethrowers, about the wild antics of the Italian communists in the 1970s. All of these books are working their way into my stories. I half expect to find Chairman Mao’s Little Red Book in a street library the next time I go browsing!

Is it because I am writing about something that I somehow see books differently? I’ve patronized thrift stores, library sales, street libraries for years and never run across such exotic Left wing-tinged literature as I have the past week. Is it a cosmic coincidence?

I waited in line at the liquor store on Father’s Day. A young man stood in front of me. I was stocking up for the upcoming Nestucca Spit Press Outdoor Gin, Literature and Squirrel Festival and carried a green bottle of Tanqueray in my hand. I stick to the classics with gin. If Tanqueray could inspire Graham Greene to write 500 words a day as a reward and make it into an immortal Amy Winehouse song, then this dry gin was good enough for me. I don’t want botanicals, infusions and gimcrack recipes for gin. It’s like slathering salmon with sauces and glazes. Do you like the taste of salmon or not? I happen to like the taste of gin so let gin be gin.

The young man stepped up to the counter. He ordered a mini bottle of Fireball, cinnamon flavored swill whiskey. He struck up a conversation with the clerk. They knew each other. He was a regular. But this order was irregular.

“It’s Father’s Day,” he said. “I have to see my dad. He raised the bottle to his mouth and took a fake glug.

The clerk laughed.

I thought: surely one shot of Fireball wasn’t going to be enough.

I discovered a new writer. She is beyond brilliant. She has some Oregon roots, too. Her name is Rachel Kushner and her essays and novels are blowing my mind. They are infusing my own writing. In her recently released collection of essays, The Hard Crowd, she writes:

To become a writer is to have left early no matter what time you got home.

That line arrested me like few lines about writing ever have. It made me want to respond. So here I am responding.

I left Portland early in 1997. The story wasn’t there for me then. Is it now?

I left my marriage early because I didn’t know how to be in a relationship and pursue a writing life at the same time. I think I do now, given there was an opportunity to do so.

I left Turkey early because the expatriate story didn’t inspire me to write about America. It was all cliche but at least with great food and ancient ruins and swarthy Turkish men giving me close shaves.

I left Christianity early as a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t realize it, but it did occur. Much later, I understood that there was a story in remaining a Christian, but leaving the faith was a much better one and totally unscripted, unlike Christianity.

I left teaching at Taft High School too early, but a unique opportunity to really become an Oregon writer of merit emerged from nowhere and I took it. I did let some students down with this decision. I still remember a student throwing a book at me when I informed a class. It missed, but only because I ducked.

I left an artist and a fire in a wood stove too early, claiming it was about a dangerous drive in a snow storm. But I wanted to write and now it seems like one of the dumbest decisions I have ever made.

I left a bed too early one morning, to write about Don Berry. Then I rationalized it to someone who asked me not leave. We’re talking about sleeping in one extra hour.

I left the construction job too early. Had I remained I could have got pretty decent at it. I left it for a job with a terrible, embarrassing newspaper. I did, however get, a good cannabis Christmas story out of the newspaper job.

I left the RV park too early, but not by much. I could feel my time there coming to an end. And I left early because of duty to my family, which typically kills writing, but luckily I’ve matured enough after leaving early too many times to know how to perform a family duty and write.

I pulled up to a stop sign in a vast parking lot. A McDonald’s was next to me. I saw a man sitting on the grass playing a guitar. He had long brown hair and a handlebar mustache, nicely twirled. A bicycle laden with possessions rested near him. He was busking the exit of the McDonald’s drive-thru lane. I powered down my window and fished out a buck. I said something. He came over.

“Do you know any Beatles?” I said.

“No, I just learned how to play. I got the guitar nine months ago.”

I handed him the buck. He thanked me.

“Do you know any songs?” I said.

“A few.”

“Play me one.”

“How about Lynyrd Skynyrd?”

Rock and roll died for me a long, long time ago, and nothing is deader than a Lynyrd Skynyrd song on classic rock radio. If one comes, I’ll turn it off.

“Sure,” I said.

He launched into the immortal opening lick of “Sweet Home Alabama.” He was playing the hell out of it. He sounded great.

“Turn it up,” I said. He smiled.

“You got it brother,” he said.

I had to move. I drove away hearing him strumming the song. If I heard singing, I was damn well turning around, giving him a $20, and listening to the whole damn tune.

But I didn’t hear any vocals and I kept on driving.

I’d be back soon to check on his progress. If he plays anything by the Stones, he’s getting 50 bucks.

Let us consider these two advertisements:

1. Dave Grohl selling Dodge trucks with a cut from his new album, driving along with his long hair flying out the window with the Foo Fighters rocking the soundtrack.

2. Bob Dylan selling Victoria Secrets with his music and black cowboy hat. Victoria Secrets releasing a CD compilation of Dylan love songs available only in the stores. (I bought it at thrift store for a quarter.)

Let us ask questions of these ad campaigns and the rockers:

• Will the ad play on a big screen at Foo Fighters concerts?
• Does Dave drive a Dodge Ram truck?
• Did Bob sell out? Did Dave sell out? Is there such thing as selling out in rock? Was there ever?
• What is rock and roll anymore? Didn’t it to use be about rebelling?
• Is Bob rebelling by associating with Victoria Secrets?
• What were they paid for these ads?
• Did the ads move product?
• Remember the era when rockers refused to have their music used in ads?

The food pantry was giving away tomato and pepper plants. Good stock donated by a local nursery. They were going like hotcakes, even the homeless people were taking one or two to grow wherever they lived. It was quite something to consider: homeless people growing tomatoes. I liked considering the idea. It meant hope. Gardening in reality and metaphor to live.

I was outside helping people load their plants and food items into vehicles. I saw an elderly Asian woman loading up a a jury-rigged BMX-type bike with four large vinyl bags full of tomato plants slung across a rack and a basket wired to the handlebars. She was also stuffing a backpack full of food items. She was going to ride away with at least a hundred pounds to transport god knows how far.

The bike was leaning against a small tree as she adjusted and secured the bags. Then it wasn’t. It keeled over to the parking lot. I ran over and righted the bike. I helped her reload. She kept saying “thank you.”

I stepped back and watched her prepare to mount the bike. There was no way she was riding away.

She rode away.