My father retired a couple of years ago, even though hes only 57 years young. He wasnt very happy with changes being made to the public employees retirement fund, so he got out while he still could. Now he does odd jobs and maintenance work to supplement his retirement income. He invited me to join him on an overnight trip to the coast this week, where he was going to fix some sagging gutters at his friends beach cabin. I agreed to go, being unemployed with nothing better to do.
We drove out to Seal Rock, OR (just south of Newport) on Wednesday morning and made it to the cabin by noon. It was a nice little two-story cabin, just a stones throw from the shore. Almost immediately we took the family dog down to the beach for a walk. The weather was beautiful, complimenting the breathtaking scenery. Having left my phone (which, incidentally, is also my only means of keeping time) behind, I felt free to forget for a little while that I lived anywhere else. The only place I resided was in the moment, in the sun, looking out at the endless expanse of open sea, hearing the gulls cry over the soothing crash of the waves. This is my favorite game. What do I have to do? No what do I getto do?
I spent much of the afternoon reading my new book and staring into space, listening to the sounds of the ocean. In the evening, my father informed me that wed been invited to dine with an old friend of his living in Newport. The mans name was Richard Kennedy, and he was the author of at least two books which were quite influential on me as a young boy. I was excited at the prospect of having dinner with a man whod sparked my imagination so often when I was young, but I was also a little apprehensive. Id never met Richard, and I didnt know what to expect. Sometimes upon meeting a revered artist, the magic of their work fades as a dull or offensive personality is revealed. Luckily, this is a two way street.
My father met Richard Kennedy while fulfilling work-study requirements at the University of Oregon library. Richard was full-time library staff at the time and was in the process of going through boxes of unreleased art, letters, manuscripts and audiotapes belonging to Ken Kesey. (Kesey had apparently disappeared for some time and everyone assumed hed committed suicide.) Throughout this process Richard would call over to my father, their desks were a few feet apart, to show him some new, delightful discovery of Keseys brilliance (or intensity, at least).
Richard has spent some time in San Francisco. About four years, he recalls. Hell, I had a wife and two kids there. He was no stranger to the beat scene (Ginsburg once made a pass at him), the drugs, or the counter culture in general. However, hes always been shy of a scene, being, as my father says, An original thinker. Ask him about his pre magic eye three-dimensional poetry. His living space reflects a long life of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. As soon as we crossed the threshold of the small, ivy-covered bungalow, I knew I wanted to be there all night.
The first thing he asked us was if we would like a beer, but there was no offering in his tone. It was clear that a can of Corona was a required accessory for any houseguest. His shoes shoveled space for our chairs among the piles of hardcover (sans dust-jacket) books. Books lined the shelves, littered the floor, and formed tabletop columns never more than three or four high (a practical formation for possessions of a man in his seventies). It didnt take me long to understand that books are to Richard as records are to myself plus forty years. However, as much as Richard expressed his enjoyment of literature, he was reluctant to discuss his own. Although our evening consisted of show-and-tell (if this phrase would elicit an ayo from you, chances are you quit reading four paragraphs ago), the only book directly born of Richards eccentric intellect was an expos of the questionable authorship of Shakespeares The Funeral Elegy, written by someone far more stuffy, no doubt. Creating foe, foe and told-you-soes of Shakespeare scholars, be they dissenters, revisionists or gleeful corroborators, Richard lit the proverbial match under the shoe of a certain literary niche. He boastfully pointed out a dozen or so bookmarks, each flagging a mention of his name, regardless of its contribution to the massive chronicle of this long mis-attributed poem.
He passed around many other books, This Im reading. This I have yet to read. This I gave up trying to read, (A Glastonbury Romance. Seriously, if you can track down a copy, I dare you to tackle this one,) but I was also invited to share. Richard asked me about my Vanguard Squad t-shirt. I told him a little about the site and its origins and he became genuinely interested. When he discovered I was interested in music he ran to fetch a box of old, sleeveless 45s hed acquired for $3.00. I shuffled through them politely and declined his kind offer to take what I pleased, instead suggesting he should purchase a record player that played 45s and enjoy them himself. There were a number of interesting looking soul singles, with labels Id never seen, but I wouldnt have felt right taking them.
We eventually mustered up the motivation to head to a nearby Mexican restaurant for dinner. We were sufficiently less than whelmed by the food or the service. After seeing Richard home, he invited us in again for another beer, or a smoke, of which variety I was uncertain. Having consumed a leash of brews already, my father was reluctant. Still, it didnt take much coercion from the two of us to change his mind. With standard-issue coronas in hand, we continued our sharing circle well into the evening. At one point, Richard was enthusiastically tapping his feet to Asprins Travelin Music mix, recalling performances witnessed in smoky bars during his youth.
Meeting Richard was an inspiring experience. He is not an entirely happy man (but who is?), still he gives me hope that I can pursue a life of interesting experience and adventure, despite those who would urge me towards safety, stability and complacency. Someday I want to be that eccentric, exitable old man near the sea with a vast library of tales both material and within.
The next morning my father and I walked down to the shore and were treated with a low tide, revealing scores of tide pools filled with sea stars, clams, mussels, anemones and other forms of aquatic life Ive never before had the opportunity to witness up close.
Here are some photos:
Clams
Sea Stars and Sea Anemones
My father's dog, Marley, and a wall of barnacles and mussels
Sea Stars eating Mussels
We drove out to Seal Rock, OR (just south of Newport) on Wednesday morning and made it to the cabin by noon. It was a nice little two-story cabin, just a stones throw from the shore. Almost immediately we took the family dog down to the beach for a walk. The weather was beautiful, complimenting the breathtaking scenery. Having left my phone (which, incidentally, is also my only means of keeping time) behind, I felt free to forget for a little while that I lived anywhere else. The only place I resided was in the moment, in the sun, looking out at the endless expanse of open sea, hearing the gulls cry over the soothing crash of the waves. This is my favorite game. What do I have to do? No what do I getto do?
I spent much of the afternoon reading my new book and staring into space, listening to the sounds of the ocean. In the evening, my father informed me that wed been invited to dine with an old friend of his living in Newport. The mans name was Richard Kennedy, and he was the author of at least two books which were quite influential on me as a young boy. I was excited at the prospect of having dinner with a man whod sparked my imagination so often when I was young, but I was also a little apprehensive. Id never met Richard, and I didnt know what to expect. Sometimes upon meeting a revered artist, the magic of their work fades as a dull or offensive personality is revealed. Luckily, this is a two way street.
My father met Richard Kennedy while fulfilling work-study requirements at the University of Oregon library. Richard was full-time library staff at the time and was in the process of going through boxes of unreleased art, letters, manuscripts and audiotapes belonging to Ken Kesey. (Kesey had apparently disappeared for some time and everyone assumed hed committed suicide.) Throughout this process Richard would call over to my father, their desks were a few feet apart, to show him some new, delightful discovery of Keseys brilliance (or intensity, at least).
Richard has spent some time in San Francisco. About four years, he recalls. Hell, I had a wife and two kids there. He was no stranger to the beat scene (Ginsburg once made a pass at him), the drugs, or the counter culture in general. However, hes always been shy of a scene, being, as my father says, An original thinker. Ask him about his pre magic eye three-dimensional poetry. His living space reflects a long life of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. As soon as we crossed the threshold of the small, ivy-covered bungalow, I knew I wanted to be there all night.
The first thing he asked us was if we would like a beer, but there was no offering in his tone. It was clear that a can of Corona was a required accessory for any houseguest. His shoes shoveled space for our chairs among the piles of hardcover (sans dust-jacket) books. Books lined the shelves, littered the floor, and formed tabletop columns never more than three or four high (a practical formation for possessions of a man in his seventies). It didnt take me long to understand that books are to Richard as records are to myself plus forty years. However, as much as Richard expressed his enjoyment of literature, he was reluctant to discuss his own. Although our evening consisted of show-and-tell (if this phrase would elicit an ayo from you, chances are you quit reading four paragraphs ago), the only book directly born of Richards eccentric intellect was an expos of the questionable authorship of Shakespeares The Funeral Elegy, written by someone far more stuffy, no doubt. Creating foe, foe and told-you-soes of Shakespeare scholars, be they dissenters, revisionists or gleeful corroborators, Richard lit the proverbial match under the shoe of a certain literary niche. He boastfully pointed out a dozen or so bookmarks, each flagging a mention of his name, regardless of its contribution to the massive chronicle of this long mis-attributed poem.
He passed around many other books, This Im reading. This I have yet to read. This I gave up trying to read, (A Glastonbury Romance. Seriously, if you can track down a copy, I dare you to tackle this one,) but I was also invited to share. Richard asked me about my Vanguard Squad t-shirt. I told him a little about the site and its origins and he became genuinely interested. When he discovered I was interested in music he ran to fetch a box of old, sleeveless 45s hed acquired for $3.00. I shuffled through them politely and declined his kind offer to take what I pleased, instead suggesting he should purchase a record player that played 45s and enjoy them himself. There were a number of interesting looking soul singles, with labels Id never seen, but I wouldnt have felt right taking them.
We eventually mustered up the motivation to head to a nearby Mexican restaurant for dinner. We were sufficiently less than whelmed by the food or the service. After seeing Richard home, he invited us in again for another beer, or a smoke, of which variety I was uncertain. Having consumed a leash of brews already, my father was reluctant. Still, it didnt take much coercion from the two of us to change his mind. With standard-issue coronas in hand, we continued our sharing circle well into the evening. At one point, Richard was enthusiastically tapping his feet to Asprins Travelin Music mix, recalling performances witnessed in smoky bars during his youth.
Meeting Richard was an inspiring experience. He is not an entirely happy man (but who is?), still he gives me hope that I can pursue a life of interesting experience and adventure, despite those who would urge me towards safety, stability and complacency. Someday I want to be that eccentric, exitable old man near the sea with a vast library of tales both material and within.
The next morning my father and I walked down to the shore and were treated with a low tide, revealing scores of tide pools filled with sea stars, clams, mussels, anemones and other forms of aquatic life Ive never before had the opportunity to witness up close.
Here are some photos:
Clams
Sea Stars and Sea Anemones
My father's dog, Marley, and a wall of barnacles and mussels
Sea Stars eating Mussels
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
i was wondering if you wanted to dj for a bit on saturday with me at the bier market. the only thing is that i use cdj 100s there, since it`s more convenient and i don`t trust those drunk bitches around my equipment.
i know, i make it sound so fun.
sorry you didn`t have the best time up here, that recordland guy is one crazy bitch.
i think i might be coming down around the 20th for a wedding, so maybe we could go record shopping while i`m there with my limited funds