Oregon Tavern Age: Nickelback Thoughts

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , , , , , , , ,

Nickelback plays on the local radio station. An ad for catheters comes on television. An OTA man in OTA country drinks a draft of Pabst. The bartender studies for a dog obedience class. She tells the man she wants a new career where she doesn’t have to deal with human beings.

I get that.

Taylor Swift croons on the radio and television switches to a golf tournament.

Someone scores big on Video Lottery and the game cranks up,“Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles. I wonder how much money the Bangles earn every time that song plays on a digital gambling portal in North America? I wonder if I would have licensed one of my hit songs in a similar manner, had I actually written a hit song? Perhaps. That one about euthanizing my old dog probably wouldn’t have gone over too well.

Autotune something now. I’d rather hear the catheter ad. You can at least dance to it.

I am writing a letter to a dear friend. Longhand. Longhand. Longhand. I want to live a life of longhand. Is that possible?

A possible new client for my author coaching business has emerged. He’s a senior citizen writing a collection of erotic tales for Baby Boomer women. Many of the stories are set in historic Oregon places. Steve Prefontaine even puts in an appearance as a character in the background, a bartender in Eugene! Steven Prefontaine! I hope the writer accepts my proposal. This new life I am living has proved very interesting at times.

At times.

Do I want the old life back? No, only Sonny, and some moments building forts with young Oregonians.

I need a benefactor who will help me publish the OTA book or magazine or whatever it’s going to be. Is that person out there? Maybe I should put 50 smackers in the Bangles machine and hope for the best.

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Sanctuary Back Yard Musings

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , ,

I am sitting at a wrought iron table in the back yard of the senior dog sanctuary surrounded by old dogs.

The river runs below me, unseen, and produces a trickling sound akin to a toy water fountain.

Gray drapes the clearcuts across the pastures, where cows feed on five-foot tall grasses.

A bald eagle chirps overhead.

The alders stand at perfect attention.

I am trying to still my mind and release anxiety. Rivers can help with that. Dogs, too.

Is there such thing as luck, I mean unadulterated luck?

In the distance I see an ancient TV antenna atop a crumbling manufactured home. I sometimes miss the era of four channels, knobs and snow on the screen at 1:30 am after the national anthem played. Not that really saw the snow all that much, maybe a couple times.

What were Americans doing with their minds at the hour back in that era as opposed to what they are doing now at the same time with exponentially more media available to them? Have our minds changed as a result of this unending availability?

Dogs crowd around me for treats. I honor their request and listen to the river and record my thoughts, most of which I’ll never share.

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The Jetty Man

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I was building a driftwood fort near the South Jetty on the Columbia River when a man emerged from the dunes and walked toward me. He shouldered a fishing pole and wore a small backpack and other angling accouterments. I stopped building and struck up a conversation as he approached. This was the first time in my fort life that I’d interrupted a build and talked to a stranger, but the people who fish from the jetty have intrigued me since I found this place, and I wanted to learn more about them.

It was nine in the morning, cloudy.

The man appeared in his mid 30s, bearded, fit, big smile. He told me he was going to fish off the jetty, and perhaps catch a ling cod, something that hadn’t happened in ten years of fishing here. Today was the day! He also told me that he’d walked to the end of the jetty twice in his life. That flabbergasted me. It’s nearly a mile to the end of the jetty from where we stood, right out into the ocean, over slick jagged rocks, with waves smashing in, any of which could instantly sweep a person away. I bet there’s not a hundred people alive who’ve made it to the end. Perhaps much less.

My questions continued. He was garrulous. One time, he got caught up in a tide he didn’t understand and had to dodge breakers on the return trip. I asked if he felt afraid he might die. He did and said he probably wouldn’t do it again. He’d learned a lot in ten years on the river and this was his preferred way of fishing rather than from boats or from a river bank. He rarely caught anything, but that wasn’t the point, he said. The point was standing atop the jetty at the intersection of the world’s mightiest ocean and one of the continent’s mightiest rivers. I nodded in agreement.

I asked him about the Russians who frequently congregate in large numbers to fish at the jetty. I’ve observed them a couple of times and it’s always quite the party. He described them as crazy, swigging vodka from the bottle while fishing from the rocks, but it was also kind of fun to be around them and not understanding a word they were saying.

We said our goodbyes and he headed toward the river. He never once asked about my fort.

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Fort Stoners

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

The latest messages from the fort writing project intrigued me. There were tiny bursts of personal philosophy, inspirational quotes, lettering from children learning to write, and more exhortations on the wonders and importance of cannabis, such as as, “Dank memes are fuckin life.”

Oh the dankness of it all. I laughed heartily when I read this message. Hell yes to the heavens of dank memes in the Age of Trump.

And I don’t even partake.

It has occurred to me that the liveliest messages in the ongoing driftwood fort writing project probably emanate from stoners. Doesn’t that seem like a contradiction? Perhaps not. The beer and Fireball drinkers aren’t venturing into the forts and opening the containers. The stoners are. The stoners are curious, settling inside my constructions, and obviously blazing away while the ocean rolls in the background. They’ve even left behind some nugs as a thank you. No one’s left behind a pint of Crown Royal.

Some general observations on the hundreds of fort messages I’ve read the last decade or so:

There hasn’t been a single reference to God or Christianity.

More women than men leave a message.

Half are signed.

About 10 percent contain grammatical errors.

About 10 percent contain profanity (in an exuberant positive style, not negative)

About 10 percent are poems or haikus.

About 20 percent include some kind of overt or cryptic reference to cannabis.

None have ever mentioned politics.

The ones at For Stevens often complain about vehicles on the beach.

None has ever been written in a foreign language.

No one has left a business card behind.

One message left behind was from a prominent newspaper columnist from Seattle.

About half thank the fort builder.

A few have demonstrated the writer is suffering great personal distress.

People like to punctuate their messages with hand drawn emoticons..

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Letter to Clyde

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations

Dear Clyde:

I feel like writing you.

It’s an overcast, sultry morning at the Sanctuary and I’m hanging out in the back yard with Bonnie and the rest of the canine crew.

I sorely miss you my friend and your comically fiendish mania for treats. I lost a little of myself when you left this world and haven’t adjusted yet.

Below me, the river barely trickles. I just took a wonderful three mile walk with my friend Glen and we discussed the various and ongoing debasements of our culture that seem to intensify every day. Glen and I always try to devise new or unearth old methods to combat the debasements.

My time with you and Bonnie along the riv-re engaged me in this combat.

Everything is exploding green around the Sanctuary. The damn blackberries I cut in the winter are returning and I need to launch a spring counteroffensive.

Bonnie is resting in the wet grass a few feet away. She’s doing okay, but always howls when I leave and the howling breaks my heart. I know she’s not howling at my departure, but, rather, your absence.

We all ran (gimped) so well together. I’m still struggling to move forward with my life but I know I will always be connected to you, Bonnie and the Sanctuary.

I like writing while surrounded by dogs. I used to write everything surrounded by dogs. I hope to return to that sort of writing group one day.

It’s starting to rain. Droplets are landing on my notebook paper. Writing in the rain to you, my friend. I know you can hear me.

Matt

Eagle on the River

NSP Meditations , , , ,

 

Perched on a piling in the middle of the channel, a bald eagle commanded the river. Frankly, she seemed imperious and I liked that look.

Swallows and geese flew here and there. The river barely moved. There is something unnerving about a barely-moving river.

Two old men stood on the bank and discussed fishing. One had a line in the water and complained of inactivity, although action was all around him. Naturally, most people don’t go fishing to catch metaphors.

I decided it was a good morning to fish for metaphors so I stopped along the river and baited my hook with my love for the world and desire to serve it in some capacity. Perhaps that is a far-fetched fishing expedition for my future, and absurd bait, but I haven’t quit yet and my creative mind is keeping me alive, moving.

The eagle turned and watched me. I cast the line and it heard it splash into the water. The eagle kept watching me.

I fished away.

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