Rain falls outside an Oregon tavern. A large flock of geese just flew by in full glory and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen geese fly from inside a dive bar. I liked it a lot.
I am drinking the local porter. Regulars are playing pool and philosophizing about pool.
Thirty minutes ago I finished Anna Karenina, suicide-by-train and all, 820 pages in tiny print. I had forgotten about the big rainstorm and lightning strike near the end, the scene that opens Levin’s mind to other spiritual possibilities besides Christianity. It’s a damn fine rain scene, cosmic, but it was merely a summer squall that lasted 30 seconds or so and then the sun came out. Rain epiphanies in Western Oregon emerge from longer lasting moments.
I am about ready to write a letter to a great friend. Her loyalty to me in recent years has uplifted my life.
The Oregon City memoir is finished.
I had the blues the other day and went to the beach to arrest them. It took all of five minutes and encountering five choice cuts of fresh beaverwood to not only arrest the blues, but to obliterate them. What is it about these pieces of gnawed wood from way up in the watersheds that delight me so. My collection now pushes 1000. I carry a three-inch piece in the pocket of mycorduroy coat as a lucky charm, surely the only one of its kind in the Oregon, or all of the world for that matter.
I got to babysit my neighbor’s dog the other night. What joy!