Wednesday, May 2, 2012

I wait for words and get the luxury of images. Images—but maybe more the feel of things. The wind and the texture of the sand and the color of the water and the memory of the water, the feel of the memory of water.

Tiny balls of digested coral, buoyant damp sand the tide leaves behind, granulated sand that really is so much like pale golden sugar. Rough black rock. I feel like a king of imagined subjects, of a beautiful, transient domain. The long, empty beach (a pattern of stranger’s footsteps, evenly spaced, oddly pronated, don’t distract me)—this border of the Atlantic—is neither here nor there, disappearing, renewed, if not here, somewhere.

Back around, on the town side. There are people eating hamburgers and drinking bottles of the local beer. White tourists, cruisers in their shorts and plastic shoes. Nice people. White people. Tan people, spotted by the sun. We all look alike. Suburban voices on the radio talking about where to go from here. We form a swelling whiteness, a sort of canker—a friendly, common disease. 

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