Cedar Seat Ass to Chair

I built a driftwood fort for a friend, a good writer’s fort complete with a slab of cedar for a good ass-to-chair writer’s seat. The fort is decorated with a 2×4, painted orange, aged by the ocean, and wedged into an aesthetically pleasing position. I tied blue and green ropes around the spars. They provide stability and attractive swatches of color. I placed a sand dollar inside and assembled a cairn in front.

Making forts has kept me sane.

Right now, as I write in longhand in a blue book, I am sitting on that slab of cedar. I survey the world around me:

Clammers clam in the background. A few weeks ago, two elderly women on Long Beach died while clamming at night. The ocean swept them away. No one heard a thing. Dying while clamming at night. I’m still considering the poetry or farce or (?) of those deaths.

A friend recently wrote that I will probably never have anonymity on the Oregon Coast, even the remote southern area. That statement shook me.

A lone crabber bobs on the gray ocean.

Black and gray cumulus clouds contrast with the bright blue sky.

Traces of snow remain in the dunes.

The jetty is deserted.

Maybe anonymity isn’t what I need. Maybe I should show my face around even more and walk the opposite direction of anonymity. How does one ever know in situation such as mine?

A lot has happened in the past year. I have no idea where I’ll go after I sell the house. Will I land in a place where I can continue my ongoing, anonymous driftwood fort art, amusement, shelter and physical and spiritual installation project? Perhaps not. Perhaps there will be a hiatus.

I want to see a coyote on a beach. It’s been a while. Too long.

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