the art of being spiritual and making stuff up

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I wish I’d had more time at the ocean. Being there for a couple days was exactly what I needed. I suppose it was something of a spiritual retreat. And it was spiritual. I had some beautiful moments on the beach, just walking and feeling. The air was heavy with memories.

But, as I said in my last post, I don’t want to write about those things, not here anyway. I did plenty of writing last night, another reason for the trip.

I stayed in a crappy motel, perhaps the crappiest in Westport, Washington. I should have been tipped off by the photo on the website, of a lighthouse that obviously isn’t the Grays Harbor lighthouse. I should have also been tipped off by the fact that the website said the motel is ‘centrally located.’ By that they meant that the place is stuck at the end of a dead end road, right between the VFW and a doublewide.

No matter, though. The place was quiet and, in spite of its lack of charm or wifi, it was free of distractions. I suppose charm and wifi count as distractions, so really, there was nothing to do in that room but think, sleep and write.

The place was chock full of fodder. Consider the guy who runs the place. His name’s Tom and he’s a musician. Tom plays in a band (actually just a duo) called Timeless. I asked him what kind of music he plays, and he told me it’s a romp through the past one hundred years. They play four to ten songs from each decade per gig. At fancy events, Tom wears a tuxedo. They don’t play too many fancy events, mostly just the VFW next door. Another thing you should know about Tom is that he plays in a pirate band that plays, you know, pirate music. Tom told me is he head pirate in Westport. I thought he was messing with me until I got home and did a little poking around on the internets.

Tom wasn’t lying. He’s the head of the Rusty Scupper Pirates (www.rustyscupperpirates.com).

So there’s one character.

Another person to write about is the gal at the drugstore where I went to buy some food and water bowls for Petey. I’d made a quick stop by the liquor store next door for a couple mini bottles and when I put the paper sack on the counter, the cashier said (quite excitedly), ‘I recognize that sound!’ She asked what I was drinking and before I could answer she started telling me all about her love for sex on the beach (the drink, you know). There’s a place in Westport called the X-Rated, or something like that, that makes the best sex on the beach you can get–not too fruity and chock full of booze. Gina (I don’t know her name, but she looked like a Gina) also loves her some pommegranet martinis. Really, she just loves to drink. Gina wears a flannel shirt three sizes too big, a yellow dew rag and a black t-shirt. She picked up both of my purchases (a couple tupperware bowls and a juice glass) and examined them carefully. Maybe she was trying to figure out why they only cost a dollar each. Maybe she was trying to figure out which I’d put the booze in–the bowls or the glass. Really I think she was just trying to extend our conversation as long as she could. Gina was obviously lonely and she loved to shoot the shit with the tourists. And since I was the only tourist in Westport, WA, Gina wanted to know all about me. Unfortunately for her I was too creeped out to stick around and I told her I had to go because my dog was in my car. I’m still surprised, and a little disappointed, that she didn’t ask what kind of dog I have.

The population of Westport is 2,400. In my two days I estimate I saw fifteen people. This is not because I stayed in my room. It’s just that Westport sort of disappears in the wintertime. The stores are shut down and the only open restaurant was a place called Original Pizza. It was original alright. Originally crappy. The waitress is pregnant and for reasons I’ll never know, put a piece of plastic (looked like a drycleaner bag) over her belly to show off how pregnant she is. I don’t have much else to tell you about her, but I’m sure I can make something up.

In fact, it won’t be too difficult to make up a lot about the folks in Westport. There are lots of blanks to fill in, but I’m feeling up to the task. I’m anxious to go back there to stay in crappy motels and eat crappy food and watching the less than one percent of the folks who are said to live there.

Oh, and there are deer and pelicans and feral cats there, too. I could make up some stuff about them, too.


Author: Kim Sharp

more later

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