Styrofoam Coffee Novel Notes

NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

Fog grips a convenience store in the middle of Oregon nowhere, a throwback store secretly housing the greatest rock and roll vinyl collection in the state. I sit outside at a tilted plastic table, waiting for my order of drip coffee, two bucks, in a Styrofoam cup. It’s dripping now, lovely Folgers falling into the cracked pot. I love the taste of coffee served in a Styrofoam cup in the foggy morning. It feels like I’m not in a big city.

Blackbirds mass on the power line. Swallows bullet through the fog. Crows caw in the fields. Big trucks are rolling into the parking lot full of men ready to stock up on cigarettes and energy drinks. Many of the men sport the hangover look. But it’s a Friday and they’ll pull through and pour the concrete and hang the sheetrock like the pros they are.

I built a driftwood sculpture at dawn. I wasn’t thinking about anything while building. I did see a harrier ripping apart a dead seal and some otter tracks. I also saw a power couple in yoga pants Instragramming the ocean and their dog chasing sandpipers. They drank coffee from gleaming space-age mugs, twirled them aloft, and Instagrammed that as well.

I’ve made a new friend. He lives in a 30-year-old Chevy conversion van with his goofy shelter mutt. He regaled me with one of the best modern Oregon stories in recent memory. It just sits there, waiting, dying to be told. I’m not the person to tell it, but I think I can find someone who will take on this remarkable project. It’s going to make a hungry reporter’s career, assuming hungry reporters still exist.

It will hit over a hundred degrees in the Valley. That temperature will burn up Styrofoam and fry Instragramming phones. It might hit 55 here and the fog might burn off. I hope not. Fog suits my mood.

People will be driving to the coast after work or non-work to beat the heat. They will check into motels and then turn on air conditioners instead of opening windows. They will complain about the fog, cold, and wind. They won’t visit the beach. They will hunker down in Starbucks or line up at Dutch Bros.

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Checking Out

NSP Meditations , , , , ,

I sit on a picnic table near a river. I am surrounded by geese and bumblebees feeding in a field of clover.

Twenty yards away, a homeless man sleeps on a table. Another 20 yards away, a homeless woman sleeps on a bench. In the parking lot, an 80s minivan covered almost entirely in duct tape captures my attention. The vehicle is covered with Christian slogans. I see an elderly couple inside with a Chihuahua. The man emerges with a guitar slung over his shoulder. He’s shouting at the woman.

It is early morning and the residents of the RV park are starting to stir, get about, tidy up. I hear conversations.

I think about this RV park and other RV parks and the interesting stories of dissipation and diaspora they contain. These stories intrigue me as a writer. I’m fascinated by their various “checking out” qualities and scenarios.

What makes an increasing number of Americans “check out” from society, on foot or in vehicles, and take to the roads, rivers, woods, willows, streets and beaches? Stateless, quiet, removed, marooned, some obviously ill, some obviously addled, mapless, meandering, with dogs and cats. Some have gone off the grid, but the vast majority remain firmly linked to the hive for banking, entertainment and communication. It’s still somewhat bracing to see a solar panel on a tent under a bridge or homeless woman with a smartphone streaming a show.

The next phase of my life will involve some “checking out,” for a spell, to assess and navigate my massive marginalization, but I plan to remain engaged with teaching workshops, writing, and going even deeper into my creative mind. I also want to continue helping others in subtle, decent ways without fanfare, recognition or recompense.

This is what I am thinking this morning on the river. The geese have stopped feeding and now are waddling straight for me.

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River Possibilities

NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

A hazy day. Fourteen geese preen themselves along the river. An ancient willow leans over the tiny beach. A butterfly investigates the charred remains of campfires.

The river is coming in, coming out, swirling. The river runs fives shades of blue.

I sit on a memorial bench chained to a tree. The bench reads: “Sit, be still, and listen.”

One wonders if that’s possible in America anymore.

Years ago, I had a strange assignation here, in the willows at low tide. It’s worthy of a short story, but I doubt I’ll ever write it. I have come to realize that many interesting stories exist in my past that I will never write. Sometimes that’s the best thing to do. But of course, they are written in my mind, and that’s a novel way of publishing.

Not a single boat on the river, a boatless river.

I am alone…but now a black Bronco from the OJ era rumbles to a stop nearby. The two occupants have that definite look: river, fire and Fireball. They don’t get out of the vehicle. It appears they are napping, a Fireball morning nap.

I sit in the shade of several Sitka spruces. A gull flies by. I am thinking about possibilities, not with this river, but other rivers.

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Bald Eagle Traffic Jam

Astoria, NSP Meditations , ,

Traffic inched across the Bay Bridge. It moved slower than when the bridge is raised for boats to sail through. That’s slow.

The word is out on this region. In 21 years living on the Oregon Coast, I have never seen the volumes of tourists and traffic as I have seen this summer. It’s certainly time to leave.

I was sandwiched between a log truck and RV and listening to the Bangles harmonize. The tide was out to the extreme and it was glistening mud flats everywhere.

What was the holdup? At the turnaround in Astoria, all was moving well. I could also see traffic moving fine in Warrenton, once across the bridge. There were no flashing lights or sirens.

The Bangles sounded glorious. I glanced down to mudflats on the west side of the bridge and beheld, one, two, five, ten, 15, 20, 25 bald eagles standing in the mud, perched on logs, or flying around. It barely seemed believable. It gave me instant vertigo.

I looked around at people in their vehicles. Everyone was watching the free eagle drive-in movie, and filming it or taking photographs, even the long haul trucker. They had brought summer traffic on the Bay Bridge to a complete standstill but nobody seemed particularly distressed—once they saw the movie, a movie they’ll never see again for the rest of their lives.

There is hope for us yet in that bald eagle traffic jam. I could feel it.

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Dear Deer

NSP Meditations , ,

Dear Deer:

On behalf of humans beings, I apologize for the Fourth of July fireworks. When I saw that look of terror etched in your face outside my friends’ living room, at dusk, sheer frozen terror, as the bombs and rockets were going off, I wanted to renounce my membership in humanity. I hope I never see that face in a deer again. It was the most unsettling visage I’ve ever seen in an animal.

Why? Why? Why? I believe setting off fireworks anywhere, in a city or deep in the woods, or on the beach, is perhaps the most pointless, obnoxious, psychically destructive, uncivil act an American can perform. Uncivil to neighbors, strangers, deer, dogs, birds and bumblebees. I have never understood their appeal. I hated them as a kid.

Again friend deer, and you are my friend, I am sorry. Take my garden if you want. I won’t object. I probably grew it for you anyway.

Fort 4th of July

Driftwood Forts, NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches , , , ,

I am sitting on a log in front of a driftwood fort on the Fourth of July. I am eating a modest breakfast.

It is morning. I just built the fort. It took two hours, a good workout of the body and creative mind.

I am surrounded by dozens of bumblebees feeding on the purple flowers of a beach plant. Perhaps I should know the name of this plant, but I don’t.

There is something incredibly comforting in knowing that one is surrounded by bumblebees at the beach.

Trucks blow by on the wet sand at 50-60 miles an hour. Their drivers will never notice bumblebees at the beach and that makes me sad. Everyone should see the drunken dance of the bumblebee at the beach, with a driftwood fort behind and the ocean in front. (Oh yes, throw in 20 pelicans, too.)

My mind returns to another fort, one I visited yesterday at dawn. Inside one of the containers, I discovered a message that was written to me, but not addressed to me. It was an appreciative message and I was fairly awestruck to receive it. Thank you. You signed your name and I think I know who you are, but perhaps not. I hope one of the fortune cookies I left behind brought you good fortune.

There is no around me for miles. The drivers in the trucks don’t count. They aren’t really here.

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