Lines Composed While Eating Breakfast at the Ocean

NSP Meditations , ,

I read somewhere that in the very near future the ocean will contain more plastic than plankton. After I read this, I was reminded of the plot of Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Galapagos: one day humanity wakes up and finds all men have gone sterile. Extinction looms. It would make a great new Hulu show and of course, gradually cause sterility in those men who are watching it, which could be part of the show.

I continue to place faith in face-to-face encounters to aid me in my transition.

Rilke matters to me more than ever. I am glad it matters to someone else, too.

My breakfast consists of: two hard boiled eggs, coffee, apple, cheese, purple cabbage.

I think more and more people are recognizing the social disease of social media. Thankfully, I am cured of it.

Otters are on my mind.

I see relay tower and smoke from slash burning in the hills.

I am well on my way of finding a new 2nd/3rd person voice for an impending literary project.

I feel fit in mind and body.

I am sitting on a big regional cannabis industry story that if published, would cast highly unfavorable light on the industry.

I recently had dinner with a couple at their home deep in the woods and overlooking the ocean and we plotted how to help save dogs.

All I want for Christmas is 3-D topographical map of the PNW.

I always write in this style when I take up pen and lined paper at the ocean. I think it is because of the meter of the waves.

There is no around me for miles.

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A Secret Place

NSP Meditations, Oregon Coast_History ,

Imagine a place, a secret place with contrasts, some more pronounced than others, some almost entirely imperceptible, some entirely conjured in the mind. Imagine a secret place that creates a state of mind without any perceptible effort and particularly without the assistance of the Chambers of Commerce.

Here’s what might unfold in this secret place:

Million dollar mansions within walking distance of Oregon Tavern Age country but the mansion owners never take the walk.

Roadkill turkey for Thanksgiving and hot dogs on the river for Christmas.

Cannabis shops and cranberry fields.

A socialist golf course and loggers who golf.

People living in vans down by the river catching wild salmon.

A library, a mysterious throwback library that can’t possible be where it is, but there it is, under a large tree and open two days a week for patrons, some who ride up on horses.

Drive-in movie theaters that show only the jetties and the ocean.

A skate park next to a bar.

Nary a hipster and where gentrifiers go to die.

A graceful old bridge with obelisks that reminds architects and engineers how to build today.

Newspapers with more advertising than the Oregonian.

A bobcat wearing a life jacket who floats down a river in a boat.

Barry White and Jerry Jeff Walker on the same radio station, spun by some of the last DJs in America.

A radio station playing “This is Radio Clash” before broadcasting the high school football game.

Sea stacks and old quarries.

Slash burning above a hospital.

Confirmed sightings of Barbra Streisand in sweats and a dog that fishes for salmon.

A gleaming German coffee roaster and a tube amplifier in a cafe.

The two most scenic sewage treatment plants in America.

Curving old roads through trees and hills that transport you to 1958 before the straightening of American transportation.

A liquor store dog that sells to Hollywood refugees.

A Hallmark card store that doubles as a liquor store.

A liquor store with three shelves.

Clearcuts and driftwood forts.

Conservative politics without chain stores.

Canned deer and bear tacos.

Panning for gold on the beach and carving messages of love into a sandy cliff.

Paying for RV park space with gold flake.

Dead shelter dogs resurrected after walks to the beach.

Sea otters that wildlife biologists don’t think exist.

River otters on first dates.

Grange hall tango and absinthe-tinged porter.

A book store with the most improbable books in Oregon and no online catalog to find them.

Whale watching with binoculars from a bar were it rains inside.

A Christian’s ocean view camera that surfers use to spy the waves.

The last tavern in Oregon, 12 stools, open 365 days a year and not a single review on the internet because there is no signal.

Jack London and Zane Grey and Heckletooth 3, the latter a classic novel set in this secret place that has completely disappeared from this place.

Shipwrecked RVs with chimney smoke sporting magnificent ocean views.

Classic vinyl and homemade salsa for sale in a roadside market.

Amazon drones will never deliver here.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Bonnie and Clyde Files 35…Christmas Party!

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

First stop: the most forlorn thrift shop on the Oregon Coast. I would unforlorn it with my Christmas cheer and unforlorn wasn’t even a word. It would be after this encounter.

I walked in and nearly drowned in dankness. I didn’t see a single Christmas decoration for sale or decorating the shop and ached for the best schmaltz in music.

A female clerk appeared from the back. I asked if she had any decorations. She pointed me to a metal shelf near a grimy window and I went over to inspect. The pickens were slim and depressing. Humbug hanged in the air.

I chose the most forlorn decorations: faded crepe paper stars, four cracked tiny balls, and a tiny hand-held pencil sharpener that wasn’t even a decoration but somehow qualified as one because here it was.

My meager selections fit in the palm of my hand and I brought them to the counter. I asked how much and the clerk said four bucks. Four bucks! I said I’d give her two and she agreed. I told her I was going to decorate a tree near a river and hold a Christmas party for two old dogs.

She hesitated.

“I love dogs,” she said. “Have a great time.”

She was smiling as I left and I knew she was one of those people who hung (and filled) stockings for their dogs, and wrapped them presents, like I had.

Next stop: a convenience store for dog presents: made-in-Oregon beef jerky by a family-run company. Made in Tillamook County on the Oregon Coast. I chose two packages of slab beef jerky, old fashioned recipe. It was the first jerky I had ever purchased in my life. I decided not to call it jerky, which is hardly a festive word. Rather it would be called “roast beast” after the main dish served at the Whoville Christmas feast. The Grinch had carved it up to perfection and fed a slice to Max.

Last stop: the dog sanctuary.

I heard the canine cacophony even before I turned off the car’s engine. I got out and donned the pea coat over my Christmas sweater, a snowflake Pendleton stitched and sewn by women in Oregon over half a century ago. I stuffed the jerky deep into the recesses of the pea coat’s pocket because I knew Clyde would savage the wool if he caught a whiff. The decorations and other loot got stashed in a tote bag that I slung over my shoulder.

Christmas party, here we come! Partay on the river with dogs!

Sunshine blasted the landscape as we walked through the pasture and I could hear birds chirping down by the river. Walking is the wrong word. I was kicking up my heels and making merry with Bonnie and Clyde, singing, improbably, Bing Crosby’s “Christmas in Killarney.”

How grand it feels to click your heels
And join in the fun of the jigs and reels

We reached Christmas tree and the beer can still stood upright on a branch. I pulled out the decorations and went to work while Bonnie and Clyde nosed around. I hung the balls and pencil sharpener. I draped the crepe paper. I considered fording the river and retrieving the red bra for a garland, but decided otherwise. I rustled up a few beaver sticks and placed them on some branches.

Where was that damn Christmas beaver!

There is a simple reason no one uses Sitka Spruces for Christmas trees; decorating them can draw blood. And in fact, the sharp needles drew blood on my fingers and a droplet found its way on the branch. “Blood on the Christmas Tree”—sounds like a helluva good country Christmas song Johnny Paycheck or Jerry Jeff Walker might have written.

I stepped back from the tree for a look—not bad. Lopsided and goofy. I’d take it. It would be the only Christmas tree I would decorate.

My bloody hand extricated the roast beast. I unwrapped it and called for Bonnie and Clyde. I gathered them near the tree and fed them them the roast beast. I sat down on the grass and wrapped my arms around the dogs. “Merry Christmas you roast beast hounds!” I said. They licked my face at the same time and I started crying and laughing at the same time.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

How to Build a Driftwood Christmas Tree

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

First, before you can build a driftwood Christmas tree, you have to have locate a magnanimous Christmas spirit and obliterate the Grinch, Scrooge and Black Friday within. It’s in there, somewhere, deep, entombed.

In order to achieve obliteration, use the psychic dynamite of caring for perfect strangers, human, canine, feline or otherwise. For example, walk into any tire center and purchase a new set of tires for someone, say a single mom or grandfather, who desperately needs them to keep a job or family together but doesn’t have enough cash and zero credit.

You’ll see these people at virtually every tire center in the area during the winter, on the verge of falling apart at the counter, and they need your help, quiet and inconspicuous help. Offer this humble aid, practice some humility, and you will surely dynamite the holiday cynicism out of your heart.

The next step is to actually visit the beach during the hectic holiday season and set aside consumer capitalism for an hour. Try it. The effort might provide the best tranquil hour you’ll spend in December and won’t cost you a cent.

Do not bring tools, ornaments, candy canes, or hierarchies. Bring yourself, a partner, dogs, friends or family.

Third, you must find a beach with an assortment of driftwood. That’s pretty simple. Gather three spars, preferably ones with notches or forks at one end so you can interlock the spars and raise them into a secure tripod. This should take about ten minutes, about half the time it takes to pay for something you don’t need at a big box retailer.

Once you’ve hoisted and anchored your driftwood Christmas tree, you are ready to decorate it with anything at your disposal at the beach. Rope and kelp make superb garland. Seaweed doubles as groovy tinsel. Limpets and hairy tritons dangle nicely in the breeze. Feathers or beaver sticks can work for a star. You might even be lucky enough to discover a Japanese bottle cap for panache. Erecting a cairn out front lends a druidic aura, too. There’s more to the season than just Christmas. You can even invite others to decorate with an invitation written in the sand near the fort.

Awaken your long-dormant creative mind and use everything around you to delight a passerby. Once they stumble across your handiwork, they will behold your anonymous Christmas spirit, perhaps even join in decorating, and no doubt gift that spirit into tiny dark corners where light especially needs to shine. Perhaps these people won’t even know they are shining light.

And all that sublime goodwill toward men and women and animals and watersheds because you went to the beach before Christmas and got your hands dirty in the sand.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Probation poem 12-4-17

NSP Meditations, Poetry , ,

They decorated the

probation office for Christmas:

Stockings, snowmen, Santas.

Green garland and green lights

shaped like a noose.

 

Stillness reigns.

Christmas pills.

Christmas black eyes.

No baying yet.

I can’t write a poem without baying,

so I won’t.

 

I’ve got Walt with me.

Was Walt into Christmas?

I bet he wielded his eel spear

to bring home eel

for Christmas dinner.

 

What would Walt make

of his country today?

Of course he’d be in prison,

doing what he implied

in Leaves of Grass.

 

Walt was always singing

praises for America.

Can you sing like that

for America anymore?

You can certainly bay.

 

We assemble around the table.

A new man

already in the act of disappearing.

I hear Americans gently baying:

I can’t go to church.

I can’t ride horses?

I can’t go see cattle with my dad?

I have to live in a stable.

I want to use so bad.

I need a job.

I can’t take a welding class?

I can’t live near a bus stop?

I can’t go to AA seven days a week.

I live in a culvert.

I can’t burn but I can take pills?

I spent the night on the roof.

I’m becoming more sallow.

 

Sallow!

A man said sallow.

I heard it.

 

He was wearing

a greasy brown hoodie

with the hood on.

I could barely see his face

(and it was sallow),

but I heard sallow

and I listened.

There is a difference.

 

I’m hearing

Americans baying

in this soundproof studio

and I’m recording it,

mixing, (no over dubbing),

producing an album

of an undetermined

musical genre

that somehow

I must release

because Americans need

to hear their

fellow Americans bay.

Bonnie and Clyde Files 34

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

I was barely out of the car when Bonnie and Clyde unexpectedly engulfed me in the parking lot and tumbled me over laughing to the ground. Jacque had released them from the back yard after they sent up a chorus of howls upon hearing my car.

“They’ve missed you!” she called from somewhere.

I hadn’t seen the crew in almost three weeks. They greeted me like no other dogs or humans had before. When I opened the trunk to load up on treats, Clyde jumped into the trunk! Bonnie was dancing around and making new barking sounds.

We cruised the pasture on an overcast day, Bonnie on the leash, Clyde loping in slow motion. Something felt a little heavy in my pea coat. I reached into a pocket and discovered a Fort George Brewery Cavatica stout, unused from a previous beach walk. Dark bliss! And the dogs would undoubtedly love treats soaked in stout!

I cracked open the beer and sipped and walked with the dogs. My mind drifted: I had lost so much the last 18 months. I had died. A total extinction of self. In that death, I had found something new and enlivening and I realized now it had started with Bonnie and Clyde offering the best of human qualities that so rarely appear in humans. I also found the magic that flows in a special relationship with a river that involves so much more than taking fish from it.

We reached our usual spot and traipsed through the mud to stand at the river’s edge. Incredibly, the red bra was still hanging in the willows. Even more incredibly, a blue heron was poking around it.

I dug out some treats, soaked them with stout, and fed Bonnie and Clyde. They devoured them. More treats, more stout. I even poured some cream into Clyde’s mouth and reckoned he was the only dog in the world at this moment in time drinking stout near a river.

Something hit me: let’s have a party or partay as my former otherworldly best friend used to say it with a glorious hillbilly drawl. Christmas was coming so why not a Christmas party with Bonnie and Clyde!

We needed a Christmas tree. I drained the last of the stout and then held it like a quarterback ready to throw a football. I looked around for receivers. I spotted one, a six-foot high Sitka spruce, one of the new trees planted in recent years to enhance the riparian area. I’d had a hand in planting about 10,000 of the same species in coastal watersheds in my Oregon life and I wanted to plant 10,000 more.

The can spiraled through the air toward the tree. It wedged between some branches. A completion! Our Christmas tree! I would decorate it more thoroughly upon our return and then Bonnie and Clyde and I would celebrate Christmas together on the river, probably in rain. There would, of course, be presents. The damn beavers better show!

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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