Fueled by a Bialetti-brewed espresso from Earl’s coffee shop, I went to the beach intending to build a great driftwood fort and commence another fort message project.
I found a perfect, semi-secluded spot. Wood was bountiful. Not a single person was around. The tide was rushing in but I built well, higher up, near the dunes, and felt certain the fort would last long enough to attract some visitors who might find the tin, open it, and leave a message. I think these messages might be my favorite reading material these days. They never cease to delight me with their originality of thought or crushing banality. The most recent memorable message: “We just had sex here.”
I built and built and built. Off came the Pendleton snowflake sweater. I worked an hour or so and sweated through two shirts.
I decided to stop (forts are never finished). I stepped back to admire the work. It was one of the taller forts I’d ever constructed. It could hold exactly one person, perhaps two if someone wanted to sit on someone’s lap.
There was no flotsam or jetsam to decorate the fort. It didn’t really need any adornment. I crawled inside and scraped out some sand. I placed the tin.
I left and continued down the beach harvesting beaverwood.
I’ll return soon. I am confident I’ll discover literature of a genre entirely of my own devising. It’s always there.