I drink a $3 iced tea. I sit at a table near the counter.<\/p>\n
\u201cRubberband Man\u201d by the Spinners plays. I danced to that song at junior high dances and danced to it badly.<\/p>\n
I think about the flotilla of dilapidated boats roped together on the Willamette River, near Ross Island. A ramshackle navy of homeless men, women, dogs and cats. There is a quirky dystopia unfolding in the city. Tepees and boats and the dispossessed with smart phones. Beavers and herons looking on.<\/p>\n
A photography zine for sale–$10.<\/p>\n
An ad for custom-made chain mail catches my eye. People wear chain mail in the city?<\/p>\n
Tepid art for sale on the walls.<\/p>\n
Everyone clad in black, using an Apple product. One kid is wearing a cravat.<\/p>\n
A small dog on a candy cane-striped leash enters and sniffs around me. I feel for the dog. He’s an accessory, nothing else.<\/p>\n
I long to live in a rock hut with an ocean view in a climate where Apple products rust and fail.<\/p>\n
I like reading the writing of dead unpublished writers and knowing that I will have a hand in publishing them. I wonder if anyone will come along after I’m dead and publish some of my unpublished writing. I better add a codicil to the will to ensure that.<\/p>\n
I want to start a business that investigates and assesses the writings of dead writers and makes publishing recommendations to their families. I am going to start that business. I’ll need a logo.<\/p>\n
The word defenestration has floated through my mind in recent weeks. It’s one of those words that doesn’t sound like what it means.<\/p>\n
I think of all the thousands and thousands of hours I spent in cafes all over the world in my 20s and early 30s, where I tried to write stories and novels, and the writing never transpired. It finally happened when I started writing in dive taverns along the Oregon Coast. Why?<\/p>\n
I dread the next two hours.<\/p>\n
\u201cA Family Affair\u201d by Sly and the Family Stone plays. I remember dancing with someone in my house to this song. There was later a visit to the beach at dusk and a gray sky so congealed that I could barely see my hand in front of my face.<\/p>\n
I stashed four of my books in the cafe’s bookshelf. Let them loose to the city winds and the city minds.<\/p>\n
The barista complimented me on my corduroy jacket, made in Yugoslavia by communists and purchased for 99 cents at an animal shelter thrift store.<\/p>\n
I meet later with an old friend. I don’t think this friend is all that enthused about the prospect of meeting me. I sense meeting me has become an obligation for some people. (The friend never showed up, texted or called.)<\/p>\n
I learned a new word from a dead writer’s unpublished novel\u2014sibilant. I like it. The \u201csibilant ocean\u201d is how he used it. The ocean hissing.<\/p>\n
Automobile fumes fill the cafe.<\/p>\n
I am writing this in longhand in a notebook. I am the only person writing that way.<\/p>\n
I forgot to bring my Perry Mason novel with me. I’m on my third straight. They are vastly different than the television show. I like the Perry in the show better. More reserved. Classier. Is it possible to look classy using an Apple product in a cafe?<\/p>\n
Let me look around…<\/p>\n
(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.) <\/i><\/p>\n\n I drink a $3 iced tea. I sit at a table near the counter. \u201cRubberband Man\u201d by the Spinners plays. I danced to that song at junior high dances and danced to it badly. I think about the flotilla of dilapidated boats roped together on the Willamette River, near Ross Island. A ramshackle navy of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3715,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[43,5],"tags":[6,52,661,418,617,651,660],"class_list":["post-3714","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-meditations","tag-matt-love","tag-oregon","tag-oregon-city-short-story","tag-portland-flash-fiction","tag-portland-oregon","tag-portland-short-story","tag-short-story","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\/3714","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=3714"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3714\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3716,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3714\/revisions\/3716"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3715"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3714"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3714"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3714"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}