Perry

NSP Meditations

An elderly, pony-tailed man named Perry stood under a conifer tree on a weekday morning. Resting on the ground near him were various empty grocery sacks and a sign soliciting donations for Perry’s one and only project in the neighborhood: beautification.

Since moving to the neighborhood almost three years ago, I had met Perry several times and thanked him for picking up trash and maintaining the landscaping of the traffic islands. A few times I’d even donated to the cause. Not a single day went by when I didn’t see Perry picking up trash and occasionally vaping dank weed while doing so.

A year ago, I got Perry’s story from neighbors. He’d been homeless in the neighborhood for over a decade and performing the same clean-up duty the whole time. For seven years he had lived in an overgrown vacant lot along a creek and planted an informal community garden and shared his produce. But his pastoral life ended when an absentee landlord finally showed up and evicted him. A little while later, dilapidated RVs, cars, trucks, tents and pallet shanties were erected near the area. Perry’s presence had prevented the encampment and once established, it took five years for the city to finally clear it.

I was on a bicycle ride to visit my dad in assisted living when I saw Perry. I pulled over and struck up a conversation that began with me thanking him again for his service. As I’ve written recently in this newsletter, I have started asking more probing questions of the homeless I encounter because I want deeper understanding. In short order, Perry informed me:

He hadn’t worked in 35 years. He was a full time “volunteer.” He collected no Social Security. He’d grown up in the neighborhood. He slept most nights in a mobile contraption resting not too far away.

Would I like to see it? You’re damn right I wanted to see it.

Perry had constructed a makeshift tiny trailer covered in black plastic that he towed with a bicycle. It kind of reminded me of a covered wagon on the Oregon Trail. Perry opened the wagon and let me look inside. Someone had recently broken into it and stole some of his belongings. He wasn’t upset. Some people needed things worse than he did, Perry told me.

He asked me if I knew anyone who needed a bike. He’d rescued a nice kid bike from a dumpster. I told him I did not but he could just leave it in the park. Someone would claim it right away. Perry wouldn’t do that. No way the bike was going to some meth miscreant. It was a contradiction of his earlier philosophical statement about possessions, but I didn’t press it.

I had to get moving. I fished out four bucks and handed them over. He thanked me. Right before I left, I asked him about the white or red t-shirts I always saw him wearing, with PERRY emblazoned across the front and S.O.S Save our Sellwood across the back

Perry told me a man in the neighborhood was so taken with the ongoing beautification efforts, that he had them made!

That made me smile. Yet another person in my neighborhood is noticing local homeless people and doing something positive.

More of this type of action! Let’s go beyond handing out food, water, books, pipe tobacco and sleeping bags (and Old Crow). Let’s get more creative to help.

Sure, it was only some custom t-shirts, but embrace the effort and metaphor. Act.

The Death of Little League

NSP Meditations, Sports

I rolled into Rainier on my way to the ocean and stopped at the city park alongside the Columbia River to stretch my legs and watch the fishing boats maneuver around the freighters. Typically, sea lions abound, pissing off the fishermen, and if the season is right, ospreys do their magnificent hunting and diving. All in all, it makes for one of the finest city parks in Oregon and a quintessential Oregon scene.

Unfortunately, the park does have one small dead zone, a Little League field gone totally to seed. Blackberries in the dugouts, a weed-infested infield, bleachers well on their way to dilapidation.

This was no scrawny rural field for pickup games. This was real deal ballpark with a home run fence, a snack shack, an announcer’s booth, covered dugouts, mini bull pens, and a scoreboard in left field.

All of it now unused and never going to be used again unless it gets repurposed to a competition dog park, which it probably will be.

I walked around the field and felt a tremendous sadness. Rainier kids must have played baseball and softball here for over a half a century, maybe longer, in one of the most picturesque setting of any Little League ballpark I’ve ever seen.

What happened? No one wants to play baseball or softball in a rural town? No one wants to coach it? No umpires? Shifting cultural preferences? Declining number of kids in these places? All of the above I would think.

It contrasted mightily to the spectacle of the Little League World Series that was then going on in Williamsport, Virginia during my visit to the Coast.

Watching those games, which I did in a bar later, one would think all is well in the world of Little League baseball.

It is not. The Wold Series is a spectacle of rich parents in rich areas who have the time and money for their children to get all the special coaching, travel and equipment they need to make participation expensive and elite and totally dominated by adults.

I never really liked baseball in my youth—too much standing around. But for two months in the summer, it was a enjoyable ritual and I had the kindest coaches imaginable who never displayed an ounce of ego or raised their voices. We had losing seasons most of the time, but who cared? It was always ice cream or pizza afterward.

I drove around my hometown of Oregon City not tool long ago and every ball field I played on has gone to seed or been swallowed by development.

It was time to leave Rainier. I hit the road. The classic little ballparks along Highway 30 of Clatskanie in Astoria had also gone to seed. They are never coming back.

I Have a Story to Tell

NSP Meditations

I was strolling the neighborhood one early morning when I saw a homeless man coming toward me bobbing his head in a style reminiscent of Smokin’ Joe Frazier ducking and weaving as he advanced against Muhammad Ali’s lightning jabs.

The man was talking loudly to himself or some inner demon or both at the same time. As we passed I made eye contact, said good morning and he made eye contact and said good morning right back. Then he returned to his conversation.

Thirty minutes later I was walking under some leafy trees in front a house gone to seed when I looked across the street and saw a woman with long gray hair walking in the opposite direction.

She wore a light green t-shirt that had a big fat white outline of a circle in the middle. Inside the circle was white lettering in a groovy cursive font that read: I Have a Story to Tell.

I had never seen such a t-shirt and was immediately arrested by it.

What is her story?

Should I cross the street and ask her?

How often does she wear the t-shirt?

Is it made in China by child slaves who surely have a story to tell?

How many people ask her when they read the t-shirt? What percentage?

Does she actually tell you a story if you ask? Does she sometimes refuse?

Is it a story of recovery or survival or pushy, simplistic Christianity?

If a kid asks her, does she make up a tale about a socialist squirrel? Or a Bolshevik beaver?

If I wore such a t-shirt, what would the story I would tell to a perfect stranger?

How long would it last? People are usually in a hurry.

Think of all those people who pass this woman and never notice the t-shirt because they’re glued to their phones.

Wouldn’t it be a fascinating cultural event to bring 15 homeless people and 15 people living in homes, condos or apartments together, everyone wears the t-shirt, and see what transpires? It would be interesting to film such an event.

Joy Writing Workshop in Astoria October 14

NSP Meditations, Writing , , , ,

Writers:

Albert Einstein once wrote, “It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.”

To that end, I am teaching a “Writing From a Place of Joy” workshop in Astoria on Saturday, October 14 and I hope you can join me and collaborate with an outstanding, inspiring group of writers.

A squirrel in the yard demanding peanuts. A bubbling lasagna pulled from the oven. A dog going nuts on the beach. An osprey diving into a river and emerging with an eel clutched in its beak. Finally reading War and Peace. Listening to a Billie Holiday record. Receiving a goofy post card from a friend. A7-iron that lands a golf ball inches from the hole. Standing in front of a 500-year old redwood. Reading Henny Youngman’s jokes at a dignified social gathering. Watching a sunset on a strain of sativa.

These are moments of immense joy for many of us. We all have our special secret list of what brings us joy and it is my strong belief that writers need to dive into these moments and write from a place of joy. Too often, we write only under pressure or gripped by angst. Why not examine and reflect upon the opposite of that in your life? A writer can never know where that process might lead.

In the workshop, I will run participants through a series of writing and conversation prompts related to the practice of discovering and cultivating joy. We’ll share some of our responses and conclude by writing a short piece about joy that will go out to the larger, often joyless world.

I hope you can join me and rejuvenate the League of Intertidal Writers, the organization sponsoring this event. It’s always so wonderful to bring a group of writers together in Astoria who support one another. It’s a unique community that provides immeasurable literary and psychic benefits.

The workshop will run from 10-12:30 pm and cost $50. Payment will be made at the workshop. It will be held in a private home. Weather permitting, the workshop will be held outdoors on a lawn of a private residence. In the case of inclement weather, the class will be moved indoors. The class is limited to 12 participants. To register, send me an email.

Oregon On My Mind (Part 7)

NSP Meditations

The Oregonian recently published a lengthy story complete with about a dozen photos documenting the ongoing destruction of Portland’s multiple natural areas, by the malicious habitation of homeless people. Two of the areas mentioned where the Oaks Bottom Wildlife Refuge and the Johnson Creek Watershed where years, even decades of expensive and successful restoration work has largely been undone by erosion, compaction of soil, denuded riparian areas, cutting down trees, piss and excrement and mountains and mountains of trash.

I have observed the destruction of the aforementioned areas (and others on the Columbia Slough) myself the past three years and written about it multiple times on this blog and with increasing hostility toward the homeless people who are murdering the flora, fauna and water quality of these areas, not to mention the aesthetic and experience of visiting these respites from the city.

Predictably, the reporter never once asked a homeless person about their role in destroying the area or if he had the right they had to do so. Predictably, the homeless advocates said the residents in these areas should not be swept because of further traumatizing the residents. Predictably, a letter to the editor in the paper a week after the article appeared cast the homeless people as victims and that they should not be stigmatized for their role in wrecking these places. Predictably, the report never interviewed a beaver, a red legged frog, blue heron, salmonid or cedar tree to ask their opinion of being displaced. Predictably, the city and county and various watershed councils had let it all get out of hand and apparently did nothing to reach out to the residents of these natural areas and try and minimize their destruction. Predictably, when push comes to shove, certain progressives will place the welfare of human miscreants well above other species.

I have to leave this issue here because this kind of destruction of natural areas that Oregonians have spent the last 30 years trying to repair, infuriates me like no other issue related to the homeless crisis in Oregon, and I feel more invective coming on and more bullshit from the advocates for the homeless. Can’t blame the loggers or ranchers or miners or developers on this one. And blaming the scourge of consumer capitalism doesn’t help the watershed, either.

Despite the desperate need for new and affordable housing all across the state, there were no significant changes to Oregon’s vaunted land use laws to encourage such construction during the legislative session. Oregon’s various environmental groups quashed several bills pushed by the Governor and most Republican legislators (a miracle all by itself), claiming they would destroy wetlands, allow developers to take out more trees, and lead to development in high value land outside urban growth boundaries. I didn’t follow this critical issue as closely as I should have, and most of my information came from emails cranked out by the environmental groups, who don’t seem to have any sense of urgency in helping people get into affordable housing, even though, in the larger picture, this is a supreme environmental issue as I just wrote about above, and is only going to worsen.

I do know, and I have written many times, that Oregon does need to amend their land use laws to allow for one or more dwellings to go up on farms and woodlots that already have existing homes and developed properties with outbuildings, etc. Rural Oregon has a tremendous housing crisis and allowing, for example, a Port Orford cranberry farmer to add an additional manufactured or tiny home to their land would help alleviate the shortage. I don’t know why these rules haven’t been changed. All you have to do is drive around rural Oregon to see the opportunity.

And finally, according to a statement on the Midcoast Watershed Council’s website, “House Bill 3464 marks another step towards protecting Oregon’s beavers. Acting in cooperation with 2021 legislation, HB 3464 will restrict lethal removal of beaver from private property. Private landowners will now be required to call their local Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife office to discuss removal options with a wildlife biologist before taking any lethal actions.”

It’s not a total ban, as there should be, but it is a start.

There is hope for Oregon still.

Oregon On My Mind (Part 6) Rest in Peace Walt Curtis

NSP Meditations, Oregon Coast_History, Poetry , ,

I can’t recall the exact year I first caught Walt Curtis “read” his poetry but I do recall the venue—the Satyricon rock club in Portland. It may have been ’86 or ’87. I was probably drunk and leaning against the stage. Walt may or may not have been wearing a diaper. He came on between bands and performed a manic 15-minute set rich in sexual and Pacific Northwest imagery, sometimes within the same poem. One title may have been “KY Jelly and Mt. Hood.” Another one was about beavers. Walt was my first poetry reading and at the time in my early 20s I didn’t know who he was. I do now. He was then and will always be, the Stone Oregon Bard.

Walt Curtis died last week at his sister’s home in Washington. Basically, his body gave out. He is at peace at last.

For over half a century, Walt Curtis, often described as the “unofficial poet laureate of Portland,” produced a Columbia River torrent of poems, reports, performances, stories, essays, articles, drawings, events, ideas, visions, rants, delusions and all around cultural mischief and upheaval. Sometimes his stuff found publishers; sometimes he did it himself.

Walt shared billings with William Burroughs, Gregory Corso, and Allen Ginsberg, among other mythical American poets. He wrote my favorite sentence about Jack Kerouac: “Before Kerouac boozed out, tubed out, whatever, his Catholic, Buddhistic angelic sentimental spirit was the sweetest thing American had going for it.” He also had the presence of mind to record something Ken Kesey once told him about this state, “Oregon is the citadel of the spirit.” It’s the best Oregon line of all time and later became the title for my anthology celebrating Oregon’s Sesquicentennial. Walt contributed an essay to that book, “Cosmic Spawning,” quite possibly the sexiest thing ever written about salmon. He also contributed to my 2007 anthology about the Portland Trail Blazers’ 1976-77 championship season, Red Hot and Rollin’. If nothing else, Walt Curtis might be the most versatile Oregon poet who ever lived and I am going to miss him a lot.

As a writer and Oregonian, Walt Curtis was authentic, hard core, all verve, and 100-percent Beaver State soul. If you ever saw him read his poems live, you were uniquely engaged, challenged, occasionally shocked, but never bored, which unfortunately can’t be said of many poets who find themselves in front of a microphone and audience and have nothing original or passionate to say.

I don’t have many details on Walt’s past, but I do know he graduated from Oregon City High School (my alma mater!) in 1959 and lived near the Clackamas River. He burst on the Portland literary scene in the late 60s/early 70s and earned a reputation as wild man who performed poetry in a way that left little to the imagination.

Besides his poetry, Walt also went to work for Oregon in a more conventional civic sense. In 1974, he served as a delegate to the legendary Bend in the River Conference, when groovy community representatives from all over Oregon convened in Bend to participate in what we today call a “visioning” process. Kesey wrote a federal grant (!) to fund the conference, and had the delegates’ recommendations been enacted then, contemporary Oregon would be a utopia.

Walt’s big break came when an aspiring director he met while working on Penny Allen’s certifiably Stone Oregon film Paydirt was introduced to Walt’s highly unconventional and confessional chapbook/novella/memoir, Mala Noche, published in 1977. That director wanted to make a movie out of it, and in 1985, Gus Van Zant’s gritty independent film version of Mala Noche premiered to glowing reviews. Four years later, Van Zandt wrote and directed, Drugstore Cowboy, one of the great American films of the last 40 years and probably the best movie ever filmed in Oregon. (Watch it today for the sheer joy of seeing NW Portland before the antiseptic gentrification took place and seeing how gorgeous a woman Kelly Lynch was in those days.)

Set on skid road Portland, Mala Noche is the story of an older grocery store operator’s fascination with two Mexican street youths. I love Mala Noche and his poems, but believe that perhaps Walt’s greatest contribution to Oregon arts and letters was his ongoing and indefatigable work on behalf of other Oregon writers and cultural figures long forgotten by the public. In a series of essays for various Portland publications in the 1980s, Walt resurrected local interest in these people, including John Reed. His superb piece commemorating the 100th birthday of Reed helped inspire the creation of the Oregon Cultural Heritage Commission, which does important stewardship of Oregon arts and letters history

Walt had his writing and art and then he worked his ass off for other writers and artists. As I got my writing career going, it was a model I hoped to emulate even though it takes up a lot of time and energy.

I believe I have followed Walt’s path of helping other creators get their creativity out to the public. I enjoy it more than getting my own stuff out there.

Word in certain parts of Oregon’s literary community (meaning the one that cares about Oregon), is that there will soon be a major effort to produce a career defining anthology of Walt’s art and writing, interviews, perhaps even remembrances about him.

I have volunteered to help publish this book. It should have been produced long ago.

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