It was centuries ago or yesterday. Time is meaningless. I know something about meaningless. It’s all around me. Why did it take me so long to figure this out? Why so long to figure out Port Orford?
Below is a dream I had about Port Orford:
I rolled into Port Orford after suffering a psychic dehydration in the big city. It was raining. Rain was moving across the highway like a phalanx. I caught the Port Orford radio station. Barry White was crooning about ecstasy. Never before in the history of Oregon had a small coastal town, rain and Barry White converged quite like this. I was ecstatic. I found a coffee shop and went inside. No one was there except the owner. I was cashless. He said I could pay later. I read the Port Orford newspaper. Top story: the liquor store had new winter hours and a new liquor store dog. I finished my coffee and went out to meet the dog. I did. I bought a pint of Wild Turkey from him and petted his head. Good whiskey dog! Pitch’s East next: I was the only one there except the bartender. I ordered a shot of rain with a dark beer chaser. I read the newspaper again. There was a column by an old man about driving his wife from Elk River to the Rogue River and back. He drove the long way, over rock and roll logging roads, deep into the watersheds. It took four hours. It was a date of some kind. I also read about a book of poems and short stories being published about Port Orford. Submissions were welcome. I started writing mine up on a Keno card with a golf pencil. The pot shop was next. It was closed. The sign read they’d be right back. Sure they would. I knew where they were, at Battle Rock, relaxing, perhaps building a driftwood fort on the beach. I walked around town. I saw abandoned houses I wanted to occupy, rehabilitate. I saw a beautiful woman riding a bicycle. I wanted to move to Port Orford. I could walk to the beach, a liquor store, a pot shop, a coffee shop, a fish shop, a library, a greasy spoon, a thrift store, an organic food store, art galleries, a bar, a conservation outfit, a hardware store, past a building where Jack London once wrote a novel, and it would take 15 minutes.
That’s what I want in my life. I’m moving to Port Orford.
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