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LATEST EDITION: A LETTER FROM
SEATTLE Dear Panama: I
hear the ocean. The roar is constant. The roar is constant when the wind is from
the east and I am standing out on my front porch smoking a cigar. The ocean is
60 miles west of me. The Olympic mountain range is between the ocean and me. The
night is still except for the roar of the ocean. The roar I hear is not the ocean,
it is the din of traffic heading north and south along Highway 99 and Interstate
5. I don't hear the ocean when I am smoking a cigar on my front porch at night
when the wind comes from where the ocean really is, from the west. I live in the
city. There are parks and lakes nearby, but nonetheless, I live in the city. The
trees alongside my house are one hundred and twenty feet tall. There are not many
trees as old or as tall as the trees next to my house in the city. Every year
a wind comes along from the north or the south that is clocked at over 50 miles
per hour. Every year new people who moved from less forested cities cut down the
trees in their yards. Every year the winds knock down some of the few remaining
trees. A smart guy would get those old tall beautiful Douglas Firs and Cedars
cut down so he and his family could sleep soundly at night instead of in terror
during the power outage windstorms. I am not a smart guy. I am from here. I consider
myself a romantic. During the last windstorm, two days ago, the television news
featured many families with crushed homes and miraculous accounts of infant babies
that just barley escaped tree deaths in their cribs. I suppose the heads of those
households featured themselves as romantics. The city we live in is not old, but
the trees that occupied the spaces where new homes sit were ancient. The few trees
remaining present a hazard because the neighboring trees that protected them from
unimpeded wind are now gone and replaced by homes. The traffic/ocean roar transports
my mind to the ocean beach where the waves come in past where you think it is
safe to stand. If you don't move the salt water and spray will engulf you. If
the wave is powerful enough it will go beyond your Birkenstocks and drag your
legs out from under you when the wave recedes back into the sea. Next stop Japan.
There are silver dollars and kelp and clam holes on the sand. When the waves come
in far, the sand looks as though some Master Floor tradesman waxed it thirty times
to make it shine like glass on top of sand. The smell is salty and human, like
my first love. The company I work for sends me to seminars where I am told that
I can escape the pressures of the city office worker life thru meditation. I like
the idea. I inquire. I can spend two weeks wages to meet with 15 women and a leader
in a rental home to learn all about the process of meditation. My first question
is: how attractive are these women? Not that I am attractive myself and not that
I am looking to complicate my life with additional women, but I am thinking why
do I need a "leader" to show me and a bunch of dissatisfied females
how to train our minds to take us to places overseas and out of world without
the hassles of airplanes or trains or automobiles or horses or boats or by way
of our own two feet, and see these places as placid retreats of solitude where
we can easily work out all the confusing conflicts that disrupt and torment our
sleep. I mean I don't think I, or any of the soap-opera women enrolled need help
escaping reality, because we are journeyman day-dreamers. I go to places I never
dreamed of when I hear a six-string guitar. When the aroma of coffee assaults
my nose. When my dog greets me. When my wife wraps her arms and legs around me
like I am the center of her being. When my friends wink and let me know that I
am in on whatever secret they are in on. When Panama Red sends me an e-mail greeting;
I get to visit the plane I want to be on. When I stand out on my front porch smoking
a cigar because I like cigars and they repulse my family; I sometimes hear the
roar of the ocean. I think about my father who was a real man. He supported our
family by working five or six days a week and on his time off, he remodeled the
house, trimmed the bushes around our house, cleaned the gutters mowed the lawn
and built shelves and tuned up motorcycles in the basement. My dad smoked cigars.
When I stand on the porch and smoke a cigar, I think about following my dad around
this very same yard when I was 5 years old and he was mowing the lawn with his
Stetson hat on and a white owl cigar hanging from his lips. The smell of his cigar
smoke was a marshmallows roasting on a fresh cut willow switch over a campfire,
a campfire burning next to the ocean; next to the roaring ocean. I don't meditate
my mind out of country and out of world; I lack the hack training. I daydream
my way to my marshmallow scented, Stetson hat-wearing father, and fresh cut grass
past. wolfman (Editor's
Note: "Wolfman" is the nom de plume of Mr. Brian Curry of Seattle.)
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