Fog Thoughts

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches

Fog enveloped me in the early morning as I walked a remote beach to the mouth of a winding river with a three-foot entrance to the ocean that changes width with every incoming wave. A raven paralleled my course and perched on driftlogs, waiting, daring me to catch up, and when I did, would lift off and land on another driftlog. I wanted a closer look at raven and meandered over to meet the bird. We met. It didn’t fly off. We got down to it.

Later that morning, at work, I designed an ad for the Klan that featured chicken fried steak, gravy, stars and flags. I thought about the river, raven. I thought about the juxtaposition of these moments, and how you can make money from one, none from the others, but one will bankrupt, the others enrich.

Three Fort Haiku Sunday

Driftwood Forts, NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches, Poetry

I walked along a kelp-strewn beach on a sunny Sunday morning. Green ocean on my left. A slack creek on my right. Geese flew overhead. Geese honking in the distance. Geese tracks everywhere. They appeared as almost a primitive written language.

An old man walked nearby with a big brown dog. Jesus I want a dog!

My energy level for living felt off the charts. I decided to channel it, although sometimes I think it’s better when I don’t and just let the marvel burn deep until it dies out.

I built a fort and hung some kelp across the entrance, and it swung in the breeze as a kind of pendulum. Poe would have dug it.

I built another fort, and pointed a 20 foot-spar to the sky. The design reminded me of a cathedral, a cathedral for one, a cathedral for the Sea God.

I built another fort, smaller, more enclosed, with a bench in front for the weary beachcomber.

An idea for a fort book came to mind.

I sat down, ate a meager breakfast, drank water, and thought about the book. I was seeing the layout, the cover, the typography. I was thinking in haiku. I want to live as haiku. I want to love in haiku.

Three forts enough

but of course, never enough.

Build one tomorrow.

I left the beach at 8:32 AM and headed for home.

Bridge Sweeper

NSP Meditations

He’s there every day, on a magnificent Conde McCullough bridge, the ocean in sight, sweeping the sidewalks from end to end. Neon orange stocking cap, a garden variety plastic kitchen broom, Seahawks jersey (#72), Thermos, backpack.

The routine started a couple weeks ago and he’s never missed a day. Consistent rain hasn’t yet fallen this Oregon November and I wonder if he’ll sweep when the weather turns wet and windy.

His technique is rigorous. He handles the broom well. He doesn’t talk to himself aloud.

I know his face pretty well. How could I not when I’ve driven across a narrow two-land bridge and pass within five or six feet of him? I guess I might not know his face if I wasn’t looking for it. I never want to ignore a face like this, nor any face I encounter.

He’s an older man, clean shaven, neat short gray hair. I’ve never seen him smile.

Conde’s bridges certainly deserve this special care, but still, his appearance unsettles me. Who is he? Why is he sweeping? Where does he live? How does he live? This is the kind of story I want to investigate as a writer.

There are countless stories like this one. They multiply before my very eyes. I see so many people moving along Highway 101 doing strange things and living with nothing except for what they carry on their backs, their bicycles, in their wagons, wheelbarrows, baby strollers, grocery carts and rolling suitcases. Many of these people have dogs.

I do not recall seeing this scene ten or twenty years ago with anywhere close to the regularity I see it now. I now see it five or ten times a day. And I live in rural Oregon.

Something has truly gone wrong in America. People are getting ground up. I want change. I want a Presidential candidate to address this story and not with cliches.

How can I help?

Perhaps a start would be talking to the bridge sweeper.

Secret Coast Radio 10

NSP Meditations, secret coast radio

Welcome to the Secret Coast Radio podcast broadcasting somewhere on the Secret Coast

Let us begin by saying:

We prefer the first person plural over the singular.

We prefer mystery over journalism.

We prefer vintage Mazdas over vintage Mustangs

We prefer sincere apologies over fake ones with agendas.

We prefer the raw narratives of country music from the 60s and 70s over the slick ones of today.

We prefer Chuck Berry’s duck walk over marching in formation.

We prefer worship while walking outdoors over worship sitting in pews.

We prefer people who actually follow through, like show up. That’s not so hard is it?

We prefer laughter over vitriol, loafing over vexation, letting go over vainglory, love over vituperation.

We prefer RV names like Ideal and The Flair over Sun Seeker and Sonoma. We’d really dig if an RV manufacturer named one of their rigs with Rain in the title. Like Rain King or Rain Goddess.

We prefer mindfulness over madness, measuring over mendacity.

We prefer organic coming together as a nation over calculated disunity.

We prefer disheveled cemeteries over mausoleums, but we really prefer expiring in the woods or mountains or desert or ocean over any kind of useless and wasteful internment.

We prefer the chirping and shrilling of a chipmunk waking us up in the morning over an alarm clock.

We prefer brevity over blowhards and tambourines over treachery.

What is this podcast about? Who are we?

Like we said, mystery over journalism.

Let show number ten begin.

The link to the show is:

http://www.buzzsprout.com/385945

Nov. 3, 2019

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches, Poetry

Nov 3, 2019

A flock of geese

fly in fluid V

Sun rises over clearcuts

Lime sherbet waves

stumble ashore

Crusted kelp

yellows with rot

White agates jeweled

in dark sand

Purple pea flowers

attract fall’s

last bumblebee

Gulls skim breakers

Orange floats bob

Dog prints, deer hoofs

Raccoon tracks lead west

A driftwood fort leans east

All this beauty,

and all I can do is

think of …

Oregon Tavern Age: Questions

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age

Oregon Tavern Age begins with a list of questions that I’ve been asked by complete strangers during the course of two decades of OTA investigations…I have often wondered if something unusual about my appearance instigated the asking of these questions, some so random and bizarre that they almost defied answering. Almost.

Here are some of the questions:

Do you want some fresh trout?

Are you the FBI agent who shot Randy Weaver at Ruby Ridge?

Do you want to hear a story about Paul Newman?

You wanna craft?

Are you Colin Farrell?

Are you Jeff Bridges, the actor in “King Kong?”

You want to see my pig?

Are you Jim Carey?

Did you know I saw Barbra Streisand wearing sweat pants?

Do you want to die?

Will you dance with me?

Wanna hold my glass eye?

Wanna know why I got drunk on Christmas morning and put my fist through the aquarium?

Did you know Clark Gable had sex in here?

Can I fix your hair?

Do you know how much cocaine Jack Nicholson snorted in here?

Why did Marvin Gaye have to die?

Where do you think the Nelsons are today?

Is cognac from Yugoslavia?

Do you know I built a stripper pole in my living room?

Did you know Lewis and Clark were really gay?

Do you know how drunk I really can get?

Where’d you get all that dirt?

You want some octopus fritters?

Do you want some smoked smelt?

Who would ever want to be a proctologist?

Do you know why I like eating raw meat on a white plate?

You know what it’s like to mow 30 acres on meth?

I’m lookin’ at a real man, aren’t I?

Are you a rocker?

Are you in the rock zone?

Did you know that I learnt pool in prison?

You know how much fun it is to blow the head off a sea lion?

Do I have a purty mouth?

Wanna hear the story of the guy who died on that stool?

Ever had a limb amputated?

What is time?

You like canned corn?

You want a car?

You think a dye grinder would cut off my chastity belt?

You know a man had his ashes flushed down the toilet in here?

You know what it’s like to buy a boat from a dead man?

To order your copy of Oregon Tavern Age, visit nestuccaspitpress.com and thanks for supporting an independent Oregon publisher.

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