There are reasons why most Oregonians call the stretch of land to our west the coast and not the beach. Maybe it’s because a beach sounds tropical and the Oregon coast can be described as many things, but not paradise. Cold, gray, foggy, overcast and rainy are adjectives that best describe the place where the ocean meets the sand in Oregon. But now and again, there are those rare days…

It is spring in the Northwest. Two weeks ago it snowed. But it doesn’t make me regret the move from the sun of San Diego. I moved back to Oregon for the way of life, not the precipitation.

In what little spare time I have, I do freelance web design. In exchange for some design work on a co-worker’s beach house rental website, he let me have it for the weekend. I headed south from Portland after work on Friday. After a brief stopover to say hi to my parents in Salem, I continued on down Highway 22 toward the coast. Dusk surrendered to night as I meandered down the Van Duzer Corridor. Static replaced the songs on all my radio presets. Rather than inserting in a CD, I just turned off the stereo and rolled down my windows a couple inches. The air at the Oregon coast has a distinct smell; a combination of the trees, sand, ocean and maybe a campfire or two. It’s a pure aroma, one that I don’t smell often enough.

Just south of the Inn at Spanish Head, I took a right down Beach Avenue and was parked in front of the house. It’s an old boarding house that has been split into three separate living areas. It was suggested that I stay in “The Maui,” the upstairs studio with views into the Pacific Ocean. Of course I had to go by faith on that because it was an inky black night when I arrived and only the sounds of the surf were evidence of the vast sea.

Though the work week was five days, like every other work week, I was exhausted from it. This would be the perfect weekend, if only Mother Nature would smile on the coast.

The 70 year old house creaked and groaned and made unfamiliar noises as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep. At 2:47am I woke to an amber glow in the room and a thudding heart. The thermostat must have been set at a particular temperature because when I awoke the electric fireplace was burning full blast. Delusional excuses to my co-worker filled my mind as I imagined how I would explain burning his beach house down. The explanations, exhaustion and soft bed succumbed to slumber and I slipped away.

That night my mind traveled to the island of Mana in the South Pacific. We had arrived to a myriad of international travelers seeking the unknown. Thousands of miles from home, perhaps solace could be found in a stranger. The people were lovely, the waters were warm, the sand was amazing and no matter where you pointed your camera, the photograph would be fit for a postcard.

Sometimes I live a lifetime in a moment.

Slowly I stirred. The room was filled with light. This time though, it was the sun. It was morning.

I walked to the window and opened the blinds to get my first view of the blue vastness; sea and sky. Mother Nature, it seemed, had smiled upon me.

Gathering a few items, I made my way down to the beach, down to the coast.

In a crowd of ten thousand, I trudge against the relentless current of nameless people. I try to look each person in the eye, but their gaze is elsewhere. They talk on the phone. They talk to each other. They talk to everyone. But me.

Their language is different. I don’t understand their words. I yell, but no one hears.

I am in the crowd. I am the crowd. I feel so crowded.

And so alone.

Like a blade of grass in a field. A grain of sand on a beach. A single leaf on a tree. A solitary person in a sea of people.

But you heard me, didn’t you? My words made sense to you, didn’t they? You are in the crowd too, aren’t you?

The ebb and flow carries us down the current. And we float like a blade of grass, a grain of sand, a single leaf to an unknown shore where we understand one another, faces have names and words make sense.

Seemingly chaotic at times, there’s a certain grace to it all, wouldn’t you say?

I feel as though my penchant for writing began just prior to Valentine’s Day. It was a day over a decade ago that I experienced love lost. Or so I thought it was—love, that is, because it was definitely lost.

How would you react to someone expressing to you that they would like to see other people? Which translates roughly to, “I am actively pursuing the exclusive company of another individual and don’t want to be with you any more.” If you’re like me, then you would internalize every word that person said, convert it to bitterness, attribute it to this particular mid-February holiday and never trust a word whispered in your ear ever again…

…until…

…words slowly drip once more like honey and you would be remiss not to listen to them. So you do, and they’re so sweet, so succulent, so believable. So you believe them. And they’re true when they’re spoken silently with soft lips pressed against yours.

But when her mouth pulled away, so did she. And so did I.

I may have lost a Valentine, but I learned to poignantly pour my heart out on paper. And I’m left to wonder which was the better outcome.

Maybe Tom Waits knows.

she sends me blue valentines
all the way from Philadelphia
to mark the anniversary
of someone that I used to be
and it feels just like there’s
a warrant out for my arrest
baby you got me checkin’ in my rearview mirror
and it’s why I’m always on the run
that’s why I change my name
and I didn’t think you’d ever find me here

to send me blue valentines
like half forgotten dreams
like a pebble in my shoe
as I walk these streets
and the ghost of your memory
is the thistle in the kiss
and the burglar that that can break a rose’s neck
it’s the tattooed broken promise
that I hide beneath my sleeve
and I see you every time I turn my back

she sends me blue valentines
though I try to remain at large
they’re insisting that our love
must have a eulogy
why do I save all of this madness
here in the nightstand drawer
there to haunt upon my shoulders
baby I know
I’d be luckier to walk around everywhere I go
with a blind and broken heart
that sleeps beneath my lapel

instead she sends me blue valentines
to remind me of my cardinal sin
I can never wash the guilt
or get these bloodstains off my hands
and it takes a whole lot of whiskey
to make these nightmares go away
and I cut my bleedin’ heart out every night
and I’m gonna die a little more
on each saint valentine’s day
don’t you remember that I promised I would
write you… these blue valentines
blue valentines
blue valentines

Blue Valentines
By Tom Waits

The author spoke about story. And how our life is a story. We are characters. In your own story, you are the protagonist. But perhaps in others you are the antagonist or maybe you just play a small part.

Being somewhat of a writer, I soaked in the words he spoke. I thought about the character Jason and what role he played not only in his story, but in the story of others. What kind of character was he? Was he a hero? A villain? A lover? A friend? A stranger?

I wondered how consistent my character was in the stories of others. If two people I knew—who had never met before—described my character to one another, would they think they were talking about the same person? What if my uncle spoke to a college friend? Or my co-worker spoke to my grandma? Or a friend from San Diego spoke to a classmate from Denmark? Or a former girlfriend spoke to a girl I recently met?

I don’t believe they would think they were describing the same character. Is that okay? I don’t know. But I think we all serve a different purpose, and play a different role, in each story in which we are a character.

Sometimes the character must play a supportive role. Sometimes the character has to play the responsible, hard working role. But sometimes that character plays the role of a jokester because he’s experienced life and knows not to take it too seriously.

And maybe sometimes the character is quiet and shy in another story. But maybe there’s more to that character than you thought. And that’s the great thing about story; sometimes you just don’t know a person until you read on.

This is my story.

Judging by the sound of the fireworks deployed over downtown Portland, the New Year arrived as I was walking across the intersection of Flanders and 19th. The festivities to which my friends were attending didn’t appeal to me. So I didn’t go. I spent the late evening writing, but with only a few minutes left of 2007, I ventured out into the streets. I didn’t know why or what I thought would happen, but I knew I needed to be out there, out where I could feel the night’s breath on my face. Jovial revelers wobbled by offering their celebratory wishes to me as I wandered deeper into the dark frigid night.

Now home, I look at the bottle of wine that is on my desk, that has been on my desk, in a drawer, in a shelf, in a closet or in my room for over 11 years. The bottle of French red wine was surreptitiously procured while at a party in college at a rich friend of a friend’s parent’s house. Being idiosyncratic, I promised myself to only open the bottle on a special occasion to share with someone when the current year was a multiple of five of the anniversary of the bottled date. Don’t ask me why.

This year, 2008, will be the 20th anniversary. I lived through the years 1998 and 2003 without any exceptional reason to open this bottle. So it has remained sealed. I hope that this is the year. Otherwise, it will remain dust covered until at least 2013.

And that seems like an awfully long time away.

There’s four or five inches of snow accumulated on the deck and it’s still gently falling. I’m at a friend’s place in the mountains. The house is quiet, except the ticking of a clock in the other room. Everyone’s out skiing, but I’m still recovering from a recent bout with the flu.

Peaceful. That’s what this is; looking out the window toward the river. Snow hangs from the tree branches and blankets the ground. Jagged icicles hang from the roof, some nearly two feet in length. And I’m thankful to be here. Thankful for this quiet moment after the bustle of the holidays and before the new year begins.

I write in my journal some of the changes I want to make in 2008. I do like the thought of starting from scratch, starting new, fresh, clean. Like the snow outside.

It’s 1:00am. I’m freezing, but I’m sweating. I just returned from the bathroom yet again following another vomit episode. It began at work; feeling the pressure in my head build, not being able to concentrate and that foreboding feeling that the flu is upon me and there’s no way to avoid it.

I went to the store and bought what I thought would sustain me as the virus ran its course. At home I planted myself in the recliner and waited for the flu truck to hit me head on.

And it did. Again and again.

What a helpless feeling.

This isn’t what my 30th birthday was supposed to be like.

There’s a long winding path that enters a dark, dense forest. Now and again I think that I hear my name being called from within. Can you hear it? I tell myself it is just the rustling of the trees in the breeze. Or maybe it’s them who call to me. Maybe it’s time to wander down the path. But I don’t want to go alone. None of us should have to walk it alone.

I met you last year, last month, tomorrow. We stand, together, on the path before the forest. You’re beautiful and you know that I’d do anything for you.

I knew you, I know you, have we met? You stand beside me. Your head is tilted back. Your eyes are closed. Your arms are outstretched to the side. I reach out to hold your hand.

I want you. I love you. I want to love you. Do you know me?

Walk with me. Walk down the path with me into the forest. Walk with me before the sun sets and we are unable to find our way back home.

She had the voice of a familiar friend—kind, confident, comfortable—but we had yet to meet. A friend of a friend of a friend. She’s good people, though, they led me to believe. So I placed my full trust in that belief. And why not? Why not take a chance? An evening of coffee for the rest of our lives?

Plans were made to meet. I asked, “How will I know who you are?” She replied, “I’ll be carrying a red purse.”

And along with that red purse, though I tried to deny it, she would carry a hope and a dream.

I was early to arrive at the coffee shop. My heart beat fragilely, frantically in anticipation. So I walked around the block again, drawing in slow and deliberate breaths. Questions surfaced and were submersed in the dark depths of my mind. What will she be like? What will she look like? Will I like her? Does love haphazardly blossom blindly over a cup of coffee?

I hope and I dream.

On my second pass, we arrived at the same time. Her red purse was a tertiary confirmation of her identity. It was her soft eyes and gentle smile that gave her away. My heart resumed its normal rate. Nervous banter spewed from my mouth. Her responses were evidence that my words actually formed intelligible sentences. Though by some temporary amnesiac condition, I don’t recall a single word I uttered. Perhaps I was lost in a gaze.

From coffee to wine to martini, we connected effortlessly as the hours melted away. Then the evening ended the same way as its innocuous beginning—with an embrace and a mind swimming with questions.

The days that followed were filled with glances and smiles. Flirting and conversation. Laughter and intrigue.

And at night her body became a canvas. My finger a paint brush. The masterpiece an invisible landscape of trees, rivers and mountains.

Then something happened to make me realize that unlike the initial date itself, my heart is not blind and it sees with clarity what I attempted to hide all along.

My front door just closed. I can still smell her in the air. The heels of her boots echo down the wooden stairs as she walks away.

Away with that hope and with that dream.

I watched a movie tonight about a guy who was a month away from turning 30. He thought his life was in crisis. And maybe it was. After finding out he was going to be a father with his girlfriend of three years, he was terrified and confused. Then he made a mistake that altered his life.

Aside from the girlfriend and expectant father thing, I am that guy; approaching 30 terrified and confused, but for the exact opposite reason. He was scared to be with someone for the rest of his life. I’m scared to be alone.

Someone recently called me “man’s best friend to women.” I’m still trying to figure out if that is a compliment. She assured me it was. But why? Does it mean I’m just a nice guy because I don’t try to sleep with all my female friends? Or is it that they see me as a harmless boy who they’re just not into?

Oh well. What difference does it make? I’m so particular that, though I’ve dated a number of women, I’ve only truly been in love once.

These thoughts churned through my head as I set out for the video store to return the movie that prompted these thoughts. Up Everett and down 21st. I had no destination. I walked slow and soaked up the partial conversations along the way. I passed a restaurant and thought I saw a girl I kissed once upon a time. It’s a small neighborhood and I chose to walk on. She was nice. But my heart is fastidious.

The long walk through dark neighborhoods led me back home and to the patio where I’m staring off into outer space at a moon partially obscured by clouds.

Though 30 is approaching, my life is far from crisis.