August 9, 2009
I watch waves larger than my eyes know crash into themselves and send their spray in the air like a father tossing a gleeful small child up and up when he comes home from work. The child goes airborne and explodes, flies, spews parts in all directions, crashes deathly to jagged ground. Too much power.
Wondering the rocky coast line, words drift on wet air from a bystander: “The ocean is so powerful… God is amazing.” Necessary abandonment of these words to get closer to what the water is.
I plant myself and sprout slowly from a rock overhang jutting out in a manner reminiscent of the opening Simba scene in The Lion King. The spray could devour my dangling feet if it reached with a slightly greater effort. Thought streams something like:
the need to give the ocean the credit she deserves for her tantalizing dance with the rocks that scrape her body’s outlines instead of condensing her into the word God which finds more over-use and consequent haze than the words love or starving or beautiful. But where the words? There is water there is rock there is me there are other people there is an overwhelming something greater somewhere somewhere somewhere and never right words for all the combinations of how we many meet, collide, create something like living to not be said. Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings and become only further indebted to the ocean because her waves’ melodrama drowns my sound.
An old man standing near turns to my friend, says of me, “Must be meditating.”
“More likely writing poetry in her head,” the words from a friend who read my moment well.
The old man laughed out loud at a something real he considered a joke, a sound that couldn’t carry to my ears over the more pressing although less formed perceptions of an ocean’s handshake.