Anthology of Water

Kayak Point

I know, I know it's been forever. Busy busy quarter. Anyway. I've noticed that I am accumulating a large collection of short written pieces about water and the ocean. I wanted to try putting them in dialogue with one another and this was my result.  

that which is both terrible and beautiful
my sublime is an ocean
the water the salt
they intermingle in captivating
capsizing songs
woolf my siren
for there i will walk
there i will sink
into the beautiful
into the terrible
sublime


beachcombing

Port Townsend

stepping stones of light
in an ocean garden
this pathway away
bids me 'cross the sea
my millstone to follow

beachcombing I prepare
soon my pockets full of pebbles
Water, catch me if I fall
or teach me how to drown
sweep me under--

here, is what the water gave me
a transport with the risefall
meet me on the western shore:
with breathing pilgrim's limbs or
deluged lungs, I land

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It's the feeling of weightlessness she enjoys the most. When she's in the water, it's almost as if she doesn't have a body. She isn't constrained by a constantly dying physical form. When she is swimming, she is more herself: the floating entity of thoughts emotions creativity love. Not tied down or trapped.

The waves crash over her head but the San Diego ocean water is warm. Salty. Caressing. Unlike the bracing Pacific Northwest waters. And that pathway of sunlight. The sun reflecting on the ocean, creating a road that she will always hope to follow, whether in death or life. 

She cannot swim well but she doesn't need to. Not when the ocean carries her along, wave by wave. Every submersion a step closer to contentment.

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feet crunch

Cama Beach

rocky beach
tights off
jagged shells
follow the sunlight
cross the water
feet dip
ice cold
heart beat
wind blows
I am alive
I am alive
I am alive
wiggle toes
breathe in
rise fall
here is what the water gave me
I am alive
I am alive
I am alive


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And there is the ocean. The wind has settled down and so the crests of the waves become smaller and smaller; the icy water laps at my feet. Every frigid touch—every shock—invigorates this broken body. I am in ankle deep. Goosebumps cover every surface of my forever expiring form. Dusky skies begin to envelop the setting sun yet there is still that one path of light, crossing over the water. This golden path, ever taunting since childhood, evades my attempts to follow. I just want to touch the sun. Reach the horizon.

Source: Tumblr

The beach is empty, for many of the visitors have returned to their camping sites and warm fires. A young sorceress’ castle is abandoned (her parents were insistent that she leave her sand castle and the beach behind) and laid to ruin by the incoming tide. Only the sand will remember this ancient triumph. The old will continue to pass the story down, forever reminiscing: “Remember when we played a part in that majestic castle. Such warmth and peace during the reign of the Great Sorceress.” How was the sand to know that their beloved era only lasted an afternoon? They had no concept of time.

When the sun finally disappears behind what I imagine to be the edge of the world, Valinor, the Undying Lands. Valhalla. The Elysian Fields. Zion. I am left in the dusky grey evening. The shadows display wide faces on the northern hillside. These little mountains are singing; I can see their open mouths carved into battered stone. They are scarred and decrepit, yet they still sing a bellowing bass with the waves’ soft alto, the wind’s tenor, and the grassy dune’s soprano. A choir of the beach. Tonight I am their only audience. They give me the full performance nonetheless.

When I finally make my way up the beach, across the dune, and back to the campsite, I feel a little less broken. And more like singing.