20140901 : Stories from the Sea : 005
This is ancient, but I never posted it and I’m back here this weekend anyway, so:
Home visiting my parents on the beach this weekend. I’ve been resisting for weeks- too little time, too much to do, too much hassle on both ends to travel and then be picked up and dropped off- mostly because I consistently forget how much being back here grounds me and re-synchronizes me to the quiet pulse of the world. There’s a personal front and a universal one- personally, I get to come back to the theatre of my childhood, this time with all the props and sets put away neatly and available to be used; I slept in my sister’s bedroom (since that is where my old bed is now), and that was a comfort, too, because while it’s alien to me in the sense that it’s not My Room it’s a place that’s always Hers to me (and in that sense known). My sister has not lived here in a permanent sense for about ten years; but certain sensory images- the butter color of the walls, the smell of the fabrics, the sound of the air in the vent overhead- are part of her as she exists in my mind’s eye. The first act of her story is stored here, written, finished, and it comes back half-remembered whenever I set foot in here. Along the same lines of taking comfort from what is unchanging: I think all writers at some point benefit from proximity to the sea. It is deep and known - unknown. It is infinite. It will, without effort, outlast you. Some better poets than me have written on this.
002) ALL GOOD WRITERS ARE READERS
Not much outstanding on the media consumption front lately; listened to an old Radiolab about the Galapagos isles and reflected on the nature of change and destruction. As any young-n’-sad teenager does, I had a semiserious interest in tarot cards as a kid, and I think I’m beginning to grasp the necessarily destructive aspect of change and evolution. No such thing as a free ride into the future.
Stuck in a rut. But here I am, right?
A row of empty glasses gasping at dust.
