Many years ago,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
in my different lifetime as a teacher,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood in front of Astoria High School creative writing students,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
ready to begin a one-period workshop<\/p>\n\n\n\n
on the subject of Astoria’s famed column.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The class was populated by the most motley, marginalized, indigent, rebellious, cynical, underdog, stoned, musically-gifted students of my career. There wasn’t an honor’s student among them because honor’s students regurgitate, not create.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
First, I asked students to raise hands if they had a Column story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every hand shot up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I gave the prompt: what’s happened at the Column?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Eyes ignited. Whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nodding heads turned toward friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mischievous smiles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suppressed laughter and not so suppressed laughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Something had struck deep,<\/p>\n\n\n\n Astoria’s Id,<\/p>\n\n\n\n its true identity,<\/p>\n\n\n\n awakened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ten minutes to write.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ten minutes to edit with partner, rewrite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Share aloud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Some important logistics:<\/p>\n\n\n\n The metal door that led into the 125-foot-tall Column hadn’t been locked at night since it opened in 1926. The Column’s caretaker cottage had been deserted for years, perhaps decades. The road up to the Column wound a half mile; headlights of patrolling cop cars could be seen flickering to trespassers. A dozen trails provided easy escapes into surrounding woods Teenagers visiting the Column after hours arrived on foot or the cops would spot their vehicles in the parking lot. There were no cameras, no neighbors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sharing began:<\/p>\n\n\n\n My uncle was conceived in the Column<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n My grandparents walked naked up the stairs and he proposed on the platform<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Makeouts, cunnilingus, fellatio, fornication, hand jobs<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Firecrackers, sparklers, flashlights<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Raves with lightsticks<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Hide and seek<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Moons at full moons<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Sneaking out in pajamas<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Hurling Jack O Lanterns to the pavement<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Acting out the \u201cI’m Flying\u201d scene from the Titanic movie<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Camp outs<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Losing virginity<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Satanic rituals<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Mock weddings<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Sword fighting with plastic swords<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Playing army<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Acid, weed, wine, meth, liquor, cigarettes<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Acoustic punk rock shows<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Circle jerks<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Crossing streams<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was up there at dawn this morning Mr. Love, writing in my journal for your class.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Screaming Shakespearean soliloquies echoing up the tower<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n A cousin threw himself over<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n A distant relative hung himself off the spiral staircase<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Ring around the rosies of Oregon’s great phallic symbol<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n of Pacific Northwest imperialism and genocide<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Stories kept unfolding,<\/p>\n\n\n\n each one topping the next one for absurd transgression,<\/p>\n\n\n\n unknowing acts of Dadaism,<\/p>\n\n\n\n or the creative and silent FUCK YOU!<\/p>\n\n\n\n to the hometown they all hated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They tore down the Column every night they prowled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They didn’t know a lick about its history,<\/p>\n\n\n\n neither did their dipshit social studies teachers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They used the Column for foreplay,<\/p>\n\n\n\n a stripper pole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was hearing something unprecedented.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was no way I was stopping the storytelling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They relished in their trespassing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Too bad the Mormon principal wasn’t there to observe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Chamber of Commerce President as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They rendezvoused from miles away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They met up by plan or accident.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Rain, snow, sleet, under the stars, 90 MPH winds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing could deter them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing like being laid in the Column when it sways.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought I’d heard it all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room verged on explosion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, he read last,<\/p>\n\n\n\n the sullen punk rock kid who didn’t want me to call him by his real name<\/p>\n\n\n\n because he hated his alcoholic, deadbeat father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So he invented a new first, last name<\/p>\n\n\n\n and it ran a close second to the perfection of Bob Dylan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMr Love,\u201d he said, \u201cI took a dump off the Column.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room fell silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe railing was tricky.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI ate a can of creamed corn for the occasion.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Many years ago, in my different lifetime as a teacher, I stood in front of Astoria High School creative writing students, ready to begin a one-period workshop on the subject of Astoria’s famed column. The class was populated by the most motley, marginalized, indigent, rebellious, cynical, underdog, stoned, musically-gifted students of my career. There wasn’t […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":10009,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[33,5,42],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10008","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-astoria","category-meditations","category-poetry","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10008","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10008"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10008\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10011,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10008\/revisions\/10011"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/10009"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10008"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10008"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10008"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}