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March 7, 2019

Ricky and Cha Cha

Matt Love NSP Meditations dog, matt love, Oregon Coast

Over the course of driving around the last several weeks, usually in relentless rain or hail, I frequently saw a man bicycling up and down Highway 101 with a brown and white pit bull trotting behind him. Sometimes the man wore rain gear, other times not. The dog wore nothing.

I assumed he was homeless and making the circuit for cans and bottles and my heart ached for him and the dog. Living outdoors in 40-degree winter where a foot of rain can fall in two days, like it did last week, is nothing I ever want to experience or want anyone else, too. Same goes for dogs and cats.

A few days ago I was determined to help the man, so I bought a couple cans of dog food and stashed them in the car. If I saw them again, I would pull over and offer them up.

Today, around noon, the sun made a rock-star-like appearance, and I saw the man and dog making their way down a stretch of road off Highway 101. I passed them and then pulled over into a driveway. I motioned him over and he changed course to meet me. The dog followed. I was going to meet the dog!

Half an hour later, I had the story, a great one, one of my coastal best:

The man’s name is Ricky and the dog’s name is Cha Cha. Ricky’s had her since she was a puppy and she’d going on five years old. Ricky looked a bit weathered about the face but didn’t have the appearance of someone transient or addled. Cha Cha looked fresh as a daisy and lolled around in the sun as Ricky and I talked. She even came over a couple of times to play and shake hands with me!

Ricky told me that he and Cha Cha had ended up in this remote part of the Oregon Coast several months ago after bicycling and trotting some 1400 miles over the Rockies.

Read that last sentence again.

He also mentioned they’d adventured around Moab, another 500 miles.

I was awestruck by this information and then Ricky told me why they’d hit the road. Somewhere in Colorado, a year or so ago, he’d been hit by car, lost some fingers and toes, and lost something else important to his psyche. He had to see the ocean, It was spiritual need, not religious. He explained the difference to me and I nodded my head in agreement. He had just rightly defined my own spirituality.

On the journey from Colorado, many people had pulled over and gifted him with new, better bikes, a trailer for Cha Cha, another trailer when the first one blew out, food, and donations to pay vet bills when Cha Cha developed some foot problems.

Ricky said, “The dog opens doors for me and the dog unlocks people’s hearts.”

I’d just written a 52,000-word book with exactly that theme, but he said it better with one sentence.

As Ricky narrated, I felt as if I were listening to a kind of holy man whose only apostle was a dog. Ricky did have a beatific look to his face and talked quietly, choosing his words with care.

He said something else that arrested me: “Most homeless people don’t move a mile in any direction, especially in the city. That won’t work for me. I got to move.”

Moving made him seen. His being seen moved hearts and minds. People acted on his and the dog’s behalf and acted in silence, profound silence, where the best work is being accomplished.

Ricky didn’t consider himself homeless. He was caretaking a clifftop, beachfront mansion not far from where we stood. He got the gig by meeting the owner precisely the same way I met him. The owner was going to set him up in an apartment attached the mansion and get him some groundskeeping and landscaping jobs. Ricky wanted to get to work.

I told him I’d help with dog food and had a great bike if his broke down.

We shook hands and he rode away with Cha Cha running him. I sat on picnic table and watched them disappear from view.

There is hope. Dogs can help with that. How can they not?

March 6, 2019

Waves Shaped Like Nabokov’s Motels

Matt Love NSP Meditations, Poetry matt love, ocean poetry, oregon beaches, Oregon Coast, oregon poetry, waves

Waves shaped like
Nabokov’s motels
washed ashore,
deep blue, slate gray, lime green,
colors congealing,
colors of Melville’s meditation.

Beautiful to behold,
these Nabokov waves,
from land,
where I was,
eating a cheese sandwich
on a driftlog,
watching a tiny crab boat,
a toy really,
half a football field away
that couldn’t, shouldn’t be there,
bobbing, listing, rolling, flailing
in the madness
of swells and sprays.

I was eating lunch
and wondering if the boat would capsize,
that I might have to do something
like call 9-1-1,
or drag the captain
out of the surf,
perform mouth to mouth,
on a fool.

I would do nothing.
I would watch death
from the front row.
I would later
write a poem about death.
Poets relish death
so much more than rescue.
They know how to write about death,
but they don’t know how to rescue.
Actually they don’t care to rescue.
Look at James Dickey!

I heard something in the distance.
I looked up and south.
A Coast Guard chopper!
Goddammit!
My only hope
was a broken rope,
a Coastie Falling
like Dickey’s Falling.

March 5, 2019

Random March Thoughts

Matt Love NSP Meditations

I’m turning 55 soon. I can join AARP. Starting over at 55 is an unsettling prospect but I am finding new ways to live, think and write.

Not too long ago, someone came into my life who provided (and continues to provide) incredible enthusiasm for my future, and has pitched all sorts of great ideas to help me make a living. I am grateful. I think everyone needs someone like this in their corner.

I have a decision looming on whether to cut 10,000 words out of the new book. I await advice. That cut would amount to a fifth of the book, and it contains the most original writing of my life. But…it may have to go and find a home elsewhere.

I had a choice the other day of reading a 150-page Western published 70 years ago or a 1000-word novel written by one of America’s most renowned contemporary novelists. I chose the former and think I am leaning toward becoming a Western-type writer once the Bonnie and Clyde and OTA books come out.

All my life I’ve been the one to make things happen for myself. I have almost lost all of that ability. I have had to learn patience in collaborating with others and it has been a good lesson and made me a better teacher and writer and friend.

A former student sent me a track from his solo album in progress. I loved it. I loved its crassness and its word play. I loved the little finger run on the guitar during the verses. I loved the dead pans and reference to Astoria. I miss the musical side of teaching high school more than the literary one, if that makes any sense. There was a lot of music the last 20 years of my career in the classroom. And really, if I am honest, music is no longer part of my life

I barely follow politics anymore, although a new friend is an ardent Trump supporter and that mystifies me, but I think also reveals the attraction of Trump for so many people. I seek to learn more from this new friend although he refuses talk about his support. Dead refuses. I’m not sure he really knows why.

I have a writing workshop coming up that I am excited to teach. Five new writers I’ve never worked with are attending. That’s always invigorating.

Soon, I will approach a local prison and see if they would be interested in having me form a writing group.

Someone stole a crab buoy from one of my forts. I had found it after a storm and hung it as a sort of chandelier. Yesterday, on my visit, I noticed it was gone. That’s never happened before. Things get washed away and scattered, but I can’t recall a time someone has ripped anything off from a fort. I guess they just saw the buoy and had to have it for their home. I’m not angry, just curious. I wonder what I would have said to the person if I had seen him or her cutting it free.

Time for a walk down the beach and see what 20 or so inches of rain the past week has done to it. Rain always wins.

March 4, 2019

Sunday Morning Meth

Matt Love NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches beaches, matt love, meth, meth addicts, oregon beaches, Oregon Coast

I went to my favorite Sunday beach, adjacent to a rest stop where I see so many people dressed in their Sunday morning church clothes, stop, look at the ocean, and then presumably go to church to worship the vague Sky God as opposed to the obvious Sea God. It is a strange thing indeed to see men in church suits looking at the ocean on a Sunday. I always wonder what they are thinking. Do any of them secretly believe something else? The suits look so uncomfortable, too!

It was a beautiful blue and white morning. Three tiny crab boats plied the ocean and I could see dozens of red and orange floats marking the pots.

My fort in the dunes on this beach still stood after weeks or hard rain and winds. A secular miracle! I was walking toward it, nearly blinded by rare sunshine, when I noticed a woman a fifty yards down the beach chopping a driftlog the size of VW Beetle with furious, manic intensity. Even from afar, I could see chips flying. I stopped and watched. I saw her hack away some kindling from what I presumed was a cedar, bundle up the kindling, and then head toward my fort. I craned to my left and saw a large pickup truck in the dunes, where it possibly could not be. There is no vehicle access to this beach. Legal access that is.

I couldn’t figure out how the truck ended up there but there was no way it was getting out unless it was winched out from Highway 101.

My mind surmised meth as the method and motivation for such a scene. I’d seen it many times on Oregon beaches over the years and interviewed a couple meth people for confirmation that meth produced this kind of erratic behavior. Well, at least they had an ocean view and not one from under a freeway in the city. I like to think there is some comfort in that.

I ate my breakfast on a log and watched the crab boats. I walked back to my vehicle parked in the parking lot. I stood atop a picnic table and surveyed the truck.

Two men were around the truck and watched them circle it it the most curious of ways. What was going on? Then they halted.

They had tried to get a fire going (a few wisps of smoke) but it fizzled out and they apparently gave up. The woman left the truck and returned to the beach where she searched for agates while sprinting. The men appeared to be taking naps in the grass.

All of this was at 7 am in the morning.

I could have watched this for hours, a kind of real life drive-in movie, but I had to find another beach for my Sea God service, a service for one, with no sermons, no words at all.

March 1, 2019

My Life in Mix Tapes: A Musical and Political Memoir in Titles (Part 3)

Matt Love NSP Meditations matt love, mix tape philosophy, mix tapes

Questions and answers continued:

13. Is there anything sad or melancholy that overcomes you when listening to some of the tapes? Yes, one in particular. I had a wonderful girlfriend in the late 80s named Janet who had a special love for one tape. She insisted we listen to it on our way to some bar or party. I can remember us having sex to it as well, many times. A few years after we broke up, she died of cancer, and whenever I hear that tape, it truly makes my heart collapse.
14. Anything else depress you listening to the tapes? Yes. It is sometimes incredibly sad to trace the slow or sometimes fast downward spiral of an artist who was formerly great. Obviously, Sting is number one in this category. REM comes in a close second, tying with Rod Stewart. Bruce Springsteen places third. Then of course there’s Neil Young. He got neither better nor worse during his epic recording career. He’s just Neil Young and that says it all.
15. How would you describe the evolution of your musical tastes over the years? In the beginning The Stones swam with me in the primordial soup of classic rock and roll and there I have mostly remained. I know I got old. I don’t even listen to rock music anymore unless it’s one of the tapes.
16. What’s something especially novel about your collection? From 1993-1997 I played guitar in a spectacularly mediocre garage band called Gravy that played mostly parties and dive bars around Portland. I recorded a lot of the shows with a cheap single microphone hanging from the ceiling and some of the songs from these drunken gigs ended up on mix tapes from that era. There’s nothing quite like hearing yourself rock the living shit out of “Sympathy for the Devil” and then having one of the Stones’ versions follow. I smile every time a Gravy song blasts through the speakers. Wince a little, too.
17. Is there a song that you dogs particularly loved? Yes. “Heartbreaker” by Led Zeppelin. Sonny the dearly departed husky went nuts to it.
18. Did you ever try making mix CDs? Yes. I burned exactly three in the early 2000s and found the experience particularly unsatisfying because I couldn’t see anything, get my hands on something corporeal or estimate the time remaining on side B that called for a song I knew probably would fit the probable 3:37 left on the tape. Making mix tapes is essentially a tactile skill, a craft, and making mix CDs definitely is not. The same goes for digital playlists. Dragging and dropping in files, or worse, allowing a random selection to compile a mix, is almost the anti-thesis of the true mix tape experience. It’s about using your hands, a tactile relationship to music, like albums used to be.
19. What especially intrigues you about your collection? Two things: One, I find it utterly fascinating that I can pull out a tape that I haven’t listened to for 15 years, hear a track, say Marshall Crenshaw’s “Cynical Girl,” and know that “Save it for Later” by the English Beat will follow. I sometimes play a little game where I try and predict what song will come next. I’m right about 99 percent of the time. Some scientist should study this. The second thing is the weird feeling of playing a tape from the 80s and rediscovering my hate for Ronald Reagan.
20. Is there a tape you really want to make but haven’t got around to doing so? Yes. A collection of the greatest Oregon rock and roll songs of all time. Naturally, “Louie Louie” by the Kingsmen would lead off.
21. Do you list all the tracks on the inside cover? I used to in the early days, but gave up the habit.
22. On average, how long does it take to complete a mix tape? I usually finish one in a week but have taken as long as six months.
23. And finally, the most important question of all: How do you name a tape?” Sheer gut instinct. I just snatch whatever line or quote or feeling enters my mind at the moment I take up a pen to write the title on the cassette liner. I have rarely invented a title and then made the tape.

Over the years, I’ve developed a loose set of rules about some of the peripheral issues related to making mix tapes:
When breaking up with someone, always get your tapes back.
When you make a tape for someone, realize that you’re really making one for yourself.
It’s okay to make a tape for someone in the pursuit of seduction.
No more than three songs in a row by any one artist.
Don’t use 120-minute cassettes because they invariably break at some point.
Use the word ‘rock’ in the title of a tape at least once a year
It’s okay to fade out on “Free Bird.”
Don’t be too arcane with song selection, Throw in some hits.
Try not to cut off a song before the tape ends. Never continue a ruptured song on the other side.
Never include The Doors’ “The End.”

Writing this wants me to make a mix tape, but I don’t have the proper supplies for the job. I will work on that.

February 28, 2019

My Life in Mix Tapes: A Musical and Political Memoir in Titles (Part 2)

Matt Love NSP Meditations matt love, mix tape philosophy, mix tapes

You probably have a few questions about my mix tapes after reading my list. Let me answer them:

1. What is my greatest mix tape? This is very tough but if someone held a gun to my head, “Castrate Donald Rumsfeld” would win.
2. Do I have a philosophy or system for a mix tape’s musical progression? No, although I know some mix tape aficionados have very rigid mixing philosophies. I go strictly by feel, the moment. I do, however, like juxtaposing hits and rarities, sometimes from the same artist, sometimes from completely different musical genres. For example, Prince following Merle Haggard.
3. What song appears on the most tapes? No contest. “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones: studio version, a dozen different live takes, bootlegs, Keith singing it solo.
4. What song do I most regret putting on a mix tape? Easy. “Get into the Groove” by Madonna. Also, anything by Pavement.
5. Is there an artist you wish you would have included on more tapes? Yes. Thelonious Monk. His music mesmerizes me and makes me write sentences in my head in concert with his piano playing.
6. What’s the best mix tape someone made for you? 1) “The Fuck Truck” series by AS; “Confessions of a Love Child” by AM. The former included Polaroids for covers and the latter introduced me to some new incredible music, that now of course, is classic alternative rock.
7. What’s the best non-musical riff to ever appear on a mix tape? “Greed is Good” speech by Gordon Gekko in Wall Street as it fades into Jane’s Addiction’s “Been Caught Stealing.” A close second is a Cherokee Indian war chant.
8. What’s my favorite song from a band that’s totally disappeared? “Drinking on the Job” by The Rainmakers, with its immortal line, “The generation that would change the world is still looking for its car keys.”
9. What’s my favorite obscure line from a big rock star or band? Tie. “I shot my mouth off and you showed me what that hole was for from “Tattooed Love Boys” by the Pretenders and, “Let’s put our hands together and start a new country up,” from “Cuyahoga” by REM. I pretty much do that every time I make a new mix tape. I like to think my creation is the sonic Declaration of Independence and Constitution of a new country all rolled into one.
10. Do you know anyone better at making mix tapes than you? Yes, my ex wife, Cindy. She taught me the art of naming. She was the greatest mix tape maker I ever saw. And she always illustrated or water colored her covers.
11. Did you ever make a mix tape with someone? No.
12. Is there any artist’s record that is an absolute must to have around when making a mix tape? Yes. Buddy Holly. He’s got a few great rocking songs that clock in at around 1:30 and are perfect fillers at the end of sides.

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Teacher of the Year: A Novella

By Matt Love

A reluctant teacher becomes advisor to a moribund high school newspaper. He meets the new editor, a dynamic 18-year-old senior, and together they begin a unique creative collaboration that revives the publication and slowly slides into gray areas. As the poet Octavio Paz wrote, “To realize itself, love must violate the rules of our world...committed by two stars that break out of the conception of love, which implies breaking away and a catastrophe..."

Teacher of the Year
Amazon's Kindle Edition $6.99

Teacher of the Year unfolds in an energetic mixture of epistle, stream-of-consciousness, narrative and meditations on the craft and alchemy of teaching. There is no other more authentic literary exploration into the agonies and ecstasies of teaching in the annals of American literature than this novella.


A Substantial but Incomplete Autobiography in Poems

By Matt Love

In perhaps the largest, most eclectic volume of previously unpublished poetry in the history of Pacific Northwest literature, Matt Love presents 148 poems written over a 30-year span.

As he writes in the introduction to A Substantial but Incomplete Autobiography in Poems, “I have organized this collection into six categories: Ocean, Love, My Life, Oregon Tavern Age, Homelessness, Probation. These poems serve as a substantial but incomplete autobiography.”

“Confessionals, odes, scatological doggerel, polemics, tankas, haiku, prose, psalms, requiems, observations, love letters, lamentations, lyrics, stream of consciousness, meditations, lists, riffs, a eulogy, a sermon, a commencement speech, found poetry, tributes, elegies. I threw it all into an ancient cement mixer and hand cranked that concrete beast while watching blue herons undulate overhead and drinking red wine as the husky snoozed in his dirt fort. The result: A Substantial but Incomplete Autobiography in Poems, something merging where Charles Bukowski, Richard Hugo, Mary Oliver and Liz Phair blend together.”

None of Love's poems were ever submitted to poetry journals, contests or magazines, making this collection a true renegade project of passion and readable to any denizen of a coastal dive bar.

A Substantial but Incomplete Autobiography in Poems

Print Edition

$21.99 + $4 Shipping


Amazon's Kindle Edition $7.99 (Free if you have Kindle Unlimited)

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