The bird flies overhead, one bird, many birds.
The water is blue, isn’t blue, is some color.
The blue is a color that I perceive, feel, touch, fades away into green, darkness, foam.
To be born in an instant, to listen, to huddle in the corner for the first time: cold.
The water isn’t blue.
It is so blue. All of it.
Just trust that you should listen to this if you haven’t already:
To lean over perched on a rock lean over a little bit to be level with the water tides rushing inching towards your eyes the blue green foam making its way to that space right between your eyes to stand upright looking down to feel lightheaded from getting up too quickly the flies pesky the tide coming in quick around your ankles splashing upwards the feeling of jeans right and wet against legs the sound of rushing rushing water the sounds the rushing the tide is coming in further the sun is bright and there are many pebbles and the sky is no other color but blue the blue blue sky it is bright the water glistens the roar of the waves the warmth of the sun the hours inside the wet puddles carved into stone anemone beneath pebbles stories under rocks pelicans above and water and flies the shoreline doesn’t end doesn’t begin the blue isn’t blue the water isn’t blue the flatness of the sky against the moving water wavering tossing upended into against the sky it is loud it is loud can you hear?
Tide pools are giant spaces, shrunken down to fit. The rocks are humongous boulders on the backs of many beings like Sisyphus, worn down by time and patience and agony. The ocean is eternity. What to write under the sun surrounded by rocks, by water? What to write?
In bed again and the final scene of the season premiere of Penny Dreadful fills me with emotion. Is it ironic that television can instill these feelings?
Can you hear?
The recognition of sound.
The pleasure of it.
In Palos Verdes at the tide pools, and it is blue.
Outside in the rain and thinking about the color blue.
It is raining and the rain makes my whiskey taste better.
Always the sound.
The wind, too, that makes everything move, says my friend. The wind, that makes me feel a certain way, I say.
Because it moves, she says. Because of the wind, I say.
Here’s the thing. One kind of pain isn’t synonymous with another. But one does draw a connecting line to another. I think of heartbreak, of love. I think until the tears come and mix with the rain. I think of a touch, fingertips along the small of my back, fingertips running parallel along my spine to reach my shoulders, my neck, my face. I think, fuck, I miss that. I miss that. I miss a feeling, a certain feeling, a feeling of saying I love you. I miss saying I love you more than anything in the world.
Dear G. Who is no one now. I am glad to have known you.
Everything you say makes me want to die. I just told the biggest lie. (Elliot Smith)
One pain into another. Heartbreak. The chilling wind. Grief. The cold is glorious. The chill that reminds you.
What is it about Elliot Smith that makes me sadder than any other music? Why am I addicted to that sadness?
I take off my glasses and the glistening glints off the wet grass are magnified, blurred, stirred.
Here’s the thing: I can’t stop loving you.
In bed again: Crying because my hands are on my stomach warm and I’m remembering the comfortable embrace of last night the warmth of the sun coming through and he is still there and at that moment who he is doesn’t matter just that he is there, that he is still there and it is morning and he doesn’t have anywhere else he needs to be at that moment and turns to me to ask if I want coffee and that might be the most romantic gesture in months because that gesture is what I am thinking about right now crying in bed after a day at the tide pools and I can be transported to that latte from this morning and to that latte from Friday and to the latte with almond milk from last week the comforts of coffee the comforts of morning embraces of morning kisses of crying in that same bed that same bed where another him might have confessed his love for me but couldn’t and this temporary love where I can feel the overwhelming love I have for all of them that love means heartbreak means love means tears means feeling means breathing means breath means the taste of scotch means the taste of beer on my tongue means his fingers gently caressing my leg means the feeling of my fingers on the pebble-covered sea anemone do you understand what that feels like? Life under those tiny pebbles the slime the moving the instability the softness the moving the gentle touch needed.
And I am not over it I am not
But I persist.