I am writing this from a log in front of a driftwood fort. I am writing it in a blue, pocket-size, six-ring notepad with a plastic hardback cover, a notepad of the type that were standard issue for most American men who pumped gas 50 years ago. I paid a nickel for it. Once the paper runs out, it’s finished because paper to refill it has long since vanished. I want to honor this notepad’s miraculous longevity by entering useful or useless observations that spring to mind when I visit the beach.
A para glider floats over the ocean. He’s rigged up a tether to an ancient rood wad so he doesn’t float away.
The ocean is rolling in with full stereo sound. I actually prefer when it’s playing in mono.
I passed a fishermen at the jetty. He told me he hadn’t caught anything. He looked like a television hit man.
It’s starting to rain.
I’m wearing a 99-cent corduroy coat made in Yugoslavia one of my former students bought me from an animal shelter thrift store. She told me it “screamed you.”
I passed a shell and glistening mound of jellyfish.
There is no one within miles of me.
Sanderlings and sandpipers dart around to my right. Shouldn’t they have migrated by now?
The para glider is floating my way.
A great friend returned from his mysterious journey. We held our reunion on the beach and walked and talked and lost track of time. It is good to have him back. He provides original thinking. He asks good questions. He knows about knives and turmeric.
Mushrooms are growing nearby. I think I should know more about mushrooms.
I think elk are watching me.
I am going to start writing a letter. I love writing letters and I love receiving them. I miss receiving letters from a certain writer with the best Oregon pickle story of all time.
The tide is receding. I see a gap that I can run though and reach the jetty. Time to run.
(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.)