We grow tired. Life on the road is exhausting, and there's still so much work to be done. Still, we sit in the sunshine on the Place in Nice, drinking coffee and frenetically writing ideas, and we know how blessed this life is. This is our job, now, and it would be ridiculous to complain about any bit of it.
I look through images on my computer, pictures uploaded only a few days ago. I had already forgotten how beautiful that place was. Already, vineyards, cobblestones, wine bottles, melt into one another and I can't distinguish one from the other. If the life is privileged, the responsibility is to always appreciate it.
We buy a bottle of red, a selection of smelly cheese and smoked meats, and retire to our room. Saturday night on the Côte D'Azure, our greatest luxury is a quiet night in. If this is life, now, I think I can live with it. In the end, after all, I don't know what the alternative would be.
Showing posts with label travels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travels. Show all posts
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Vagabondery
We spend the morning rebooking tickets, pushing returns to further in the future. Someday we will go home, but not yet. Someday we will have a home, but not now. The Spring sun shines on us and nothing seems impossible. We have another glass of wine, have another glass of giggles. We talk of the future, and the things we see amaze us, scare us, titillate us. We are in awe of what opens up before us.
It seems somehow inevitable. We are at this point now, on this verge of a whole new tomorrow, and it seems the most obvious outcome. Had we been older when we were young, perhaps we would have known. Instead we strained and fought in our different directions, in our individual rebellions. Here we are now, and it feels like home.
Like what else would we do with our lives, but be mad, and live it?
It seems somehow inevitable. We are at this point now, on this verge of a whole new tomorrow, and it seems the most obvious outcome. Had we been older when we were young, perhaps we would have known. Instead we strained and fought in our different directions, in our individual rebellions. Here we are now, and it feels like home.
Like what else would we do with our lives, but be mad, and live it?
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
On the Vine
Row after row of dark, dry stubs, seemingly dead, like a forest after the fire. They wash the countryside in an ocean of greys and browns, of uninteresting indifference. But we park the car anyways, we step out onto the dry earth and make our way down the rows. The sun has returned, our cheeks are flushed. Far away in the treetops, familiar birds sing familiar tunes; the side of the road is littered with the flowers of childhoods past. And there, when we get real close to the gnarled bark, to the dreary corpses and spindly arms, there they are. A million tiny leaves, breaking through the hardened lava, fighting their way to the surface, to the sun. Every leaf is a brand new baby, shiny and flawless, that new bright green that only comes in Spring, and never lasts through the cycle of the seasons. We are born to die.
But oh, when we live, how brightly we shine.
But oh, when we live, how brightly we shine.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Pyrénéen
Three hours of sleep before being painfully yanked back into existence. Clean up, clear out. The French Riviera met another sunny day and the remains of the week that passed evaporated quickly into oblivion, as we pulled our bags to the rental car and set our sights westward. We passed the mountains, the spring flowered trees, temperatures on the dashboard rising as the buds along the side of the road grew bigger, lusher. Thirty-three degrees and snow-covered Pyrenees whispered of Spain within reach, but we slowed as the roads grew winding, the villages small. My eyes fought to stay open as we carefully navigated the village streets; strangers, thought the sage residents as we passed.
We did not know what to expect here. We followed our young winemaker on his tour of the various vines straddled across scraggly rocks and mustard-covered fields. There, behind the castle, there is the ocean, he said, as his daughter concluded in her curious French that we must be sisters, because our hair was the same. When he left us at the village square, another group of strangers gladly took us in and tore us along to their barbecue down the street. Everyone was a vintner, everyone brought a bottle of their own to the fête, whether there were labels for it or not. I struggled to keep my eyes open, I struggled to keep my French intact; both were failing.
Hours later, we regretfully made our way up the hill to the guesthouse where we would finally sleep. In the dead quiet of the sleeping village, our eyes were again alert, our tongues loosened, our prospects bright, but the alarm clock loomed large in the near future. Another day, another adventure. The ancient doors gave way, cold tiles soothed my bare feet as they walked those last steps to the bed. Another day, another adventure. My body slept long before my head hit the pillow.
We did not know what to expect here. We followed our young winemaker on his tour of the various vines straddled across scraggly rocks and mustard-covered fields. There, behind the castle, there is the ocean, he said, as his daughter concluded in her curious French that we must be sisters, because our hair was the same. When he left us at the village square, another group of strangers gladly took us in and tore us along to their barbecue down the street. Everyone was a vintner, everyone brought a bottle of their own to the fête, whether there were labels for it or not. I struggled to keep my eyes open, I struggled to keep my French intact; both were failing.
Hours later, we regretfully made our way up the hill to the guesthouse where we would finally sleep. In the dead quiet of the sleeping village, our eyes were again alert, our tongues loosened, our prospects bright, but the alarm clock loomed large in the near future. Another day, another adventure. The ancient doors gave way, cold tiles soothed my bare feet as they walked those last steps to the bed. Another day, another adventure. My body slept long before my head hit the pillow.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In Waves
Orphan Puppy gets sick in the night. Spends hours pacing and by morning we are on high alert, our hearts breaking before our eyes, as she hangs listless from her bed. We prepare ourselves, yet again, and I go to work with heavy steps. But by afternoon, she is back to pitter-pattering around the apartment, inhaling food and wagging her tail at every flicker in the lights. I laugh, relieved and delighted at her antics, and she spends the afternoon snuggled next to me as I work. These days are tough our emotional sanity, but every good day in the wait, is still so much better than the alternative.
And suddenly I sit here with an airplane ticket in my inbox. The greatest solution to every itch, to every dead feeling, to every restless fear. A deadline looms, more like a promise than a stressor, and I ready myself to write lists and check them off in time for departure. I run through the nerves that need to be stretched, and paint the romantic images of spring in France to tempt my palate. France, spring, wine, work. Open roads and people to win over. A project of passion in the making, the passion long since there. I know there is much work to be done before this trip, I know there are obstacles to overcome. But the trip is worth the effort. The Trip is always worth the effort. That's what makes airplane tickets sparkle so.
And suddenly I sit here with an airplane ticket in my inbox. The greatest solution to every itch, to every dead feeling, to every restless fear. A deadline looms, more like a promise than a stressor, and I ready myself to write lists and check them off in time for departure. I run through the nerves that need to be stretched, and paint the romantic images of spring in France to tempt my palate. France, spring, wine, work. Open roads and people to win over. A project of passion in the making, the passion long since there. I know there is much work to be done before this trip, I know there are obstacles to overcome. But the trip is worth the effort. The Trip is always worth the effort. That's what makes airplane tickets sparkle so.
Monday, January 31, 2011
This Is What You Get
How quickly life falls into routine. Runs towards it without a moment to stop and digest what was, and how abrupt the change. How can everything around me suddenly seem exactly the same, when inside I feel so different? 28 years of travel, and I haven't learned my lesson.
My warm skin has disappeared since I returned, tan lines long since lost to layers. I even sleep in long sleeves and forget what lies beneath. My hair is covered by thick knits, my fingers, my feet. My accent returns to its comfort zone, my pace quickens again to its familiar rush. The simple joys of new discoveries seem buried under a mound of gray snow. You can run forever but at some point you will be stuck in the slowest check-out line at the grocery store and a heavy dread will catch up to you. There is nowhere to turn. Australia feels a hundred years away and there is nothing to do but wait patiently and pay up when the register rings. You can never go back, only forward, onward, and hope that something just as delicious will appear around the bend.
I miss the feeling of you on my skin. I wish I remembered how it felt.
My warm skin has disappeared since I returned, tan lines long since lost to layers. I even sleep in long sleeves and forget what lies beneath. My hair is covered by thick knits, my fingers, my feet. My accent returns to its comfort zone, my pace quickens again to its familiar rush. The simple joys of new discoveries seem buried under a mound of gray snow. You can run forever but at some point you will be stuck in the slowest check-out line at the grocery store and a heavy dread will catch up to you. There is nowhere to turn. Australia feels a hundred years away and there is nothing to do but wait patiently and pay up when the register rings. You can never go back, only forward, onward, and hope that something just as delicious will appear around the bend.
I miss the feeling of you on my skin. I wish I remembered how it felt.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
And So.
Hands gestured on the sandy shore. Fingers pointing at wrists and imaginary watches. Time to go. I began to walk slowly to where the bodies were waiting. Leave the ocean once and for all. Wrap up. Say your goodbyes and return to the cold from whence you came.
I caught a surf the last few feet, tumbling awkwardly onto the shallow edge. Ungraceful last words. But then how hard to get out of that water, how difficult to take the last step. I turned around and ran straight back into the sea, diving with ferocious eagerness into the crashing wave and swimming, swimming back out. Just one more dive. I dipped my head under the surface, let my legs kick into the air and push me down to the rough sandy bottom, swimming through wave after wave. I'd come up for air and dive again into the warm water, immersing myself not only in its soft wetness but in all that it has meant to me these last weeks. Every time I tried to get up I ended up running right back out, like a lover torn from her object of affection at the airport gate and unable to leave without just one last kiss, one last violent embrace. But once more is never enough. I never will have had enough.
Bags lie packed in a hotel room outside Adelaide. Bottles of wine, trinkets of memorabilia and sandy beach towels fill suitcases, while piles of warm winter clothing lie ready for travel. The end is nigh. A month of Australia dries on my skin, mingles with the salty sea, the sand between my toes, with white eyelashes and brown shoulders. A month of Australia lingers in my accent, the slowness of my step, the quickness of my smile.
They say in New York another snow storm has shut down the city. I arrive thus like I left, amidst flurries of uncertainty in the remnants of winter's havoc. It seems fitting somehow. New York does not ease you into anything. You should be glad it lets you back in at all after such an abandonment. I take a deep breath. Start over.
Go Home.
I caught a surf the last few feet, tumbling awkwardly onto the shallow edge. Ungraceful last words. But then how hard to get out of that water, how difficult to take the last step. I turned around and ran straight back into the sea, diving with ferocious eagerness into the crashing wave and swimming, swimming back out. Just one more dive. I dipped my head under the surface, let my legs kick into the air and push me down to the rough sandy bottom, swimming through wave after wave. I'd come up for air and dive again into the warm water, immersing myself not only in its soft wetness but in all that it has meant to me these last weeks. Every time I tried to get up I ended up running right back out, like a lover torn from her object of affection at the airport gate and unable to leave without just one last kiss, one last violent embrace. But once more is never enough. I never will have had enough.
Bags lie packed in a hotel room outside Adelaide. Bottles of wine, trinkets of memorabilia and sandy beach towels fill suitcases, while piles of warm winter clothing lie ready for travel. The end is nigh. A month of Australia dries on my skin, mingles with the salty sea, the sand between my toes, with white eyelashes and brown shoulders. A month of Australia lingers in my accent, the slowness of my step, the quickness of my smile.
They say in New York another snow storm has shut down the city. I arrive thus like I left, amidst flurries of uncertainty in the remnants of winter's havoc. It seems fitting somehow. New York does not ease you into anything. You should be glad it lets you back in at all after such an abandonment. I take a deep breath. Start over.
Go Home.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Reception Lost
It is half an hour before our receiver can pick up any signal to get us to the internet. Four adults in a parked car on a street somewhere in South Australia, a computer in each lap, quietly busily whiling away precious minutes with the outside world.
The days in between are spent in the hammock, on a hike, watching dolphins, writing television, watching the sun set from a panorama window, taking pictures, getting angry, getting giddy, sleeping soundly, showering outdoors from the rainwater tank, mentally preparing for a day when this is all over.
Surprisingly, none of these days are filled with words. Surprisingly, my pen lies still by my bedside table. And however much I love this trip, part of me misses the person bursting with words. Part of me misses me.
I cannot now comprehend the sadness of leaving this land. But I anxiously await the happiness of homecoming. If I don't write another letter until then, I don't think it matters, in the end.
The days in between are spent in the hammock, on a hike, watching dolphins, writing television, watching the sun set from a panorama window, taking pictures, getting angry, getting giddy, sleeping soundly, showering outdoors from the rainwater tank, mentally preparing for a day when this is all over.
Surprisingly, none of these days are filled with words. Surprisingly, my pen lies still by my bedside table. And however much I love this trip, part of me misses the person bursting with words. Part of me misses me.
I cannot now comprehend the sadness of leaving this land. But I anxiously await the happiness of homecoming. If I don't write another letter until then, I don't think it matters, in the end.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Unhappy Hipster
Every inch of the house looks like an image from an urban architect magazine describing hip rural living. I giggle at my own captions before diving into a 1000-piece puzzle with my mother. Me, laying puzzles. Unheard of. This is vacation, what it does to you. As the car gets packed up with technical gadgets and telephones for a trip to the civilized world, I stay behind, turn up the sound system, and let my soul pour its heart out.
It seeps into the cracks of the hardwood floor. It trickles out onto the porch in the afternoon breeze. It spreads across the olive trees, the birdbath, the yellow fields and the ocean below. I sing along to the music until my chest trembles, I pretend to lie down in the hammock but my legs long too much to run.
I know my return looms in the suddenly much nearer future. I know I need to start working, catching up, getting back in touch with those back home who expect my correspondence and my schedules. A large part of me misses New York something terrible and cannot wait to run through its streets again, back in the company of those I love. The word begins to rummage about my bowels, asking but a minute of my time, asking to come to the surface. But for now, how sweet it is. Just to revel in this land, this air, this sun.
How did life get so good?
It seeps into the cracks of the hardwood floor. It trickles out onto the porch in the afternoon breeze. It spreads across the olive trees, the birdbath, the yellow fields and the ocean below. I sing along to the music until my chest trembles, I pretend to lie down in the hammock but my legs long too much to run.
I know my return looms in the suddenly much nearer future. I know I need to start working, catching up, getting back in touch with those back home who expect my correspondence and my schedules. A large part of me misses New York something terrible and cannot wait to run through its streets again, back in the company of those I love. The word begins to rummage about my bowels, asking but a minute of my time, asking to come to the surface. But for now, how sweet it is. Just to revel in this land, this air, this sun.
How did life get so good?
Mantra
Every morning a new pillow, a new layout for the mapping. We wait for our next flight and cannot for the life of us remember if we’ve been there before. In thirteen years too many places seen and every ocean looks the same. This looks like that time I was living in Spain. This looks like when we drove through California. Tastes like chicken. Remember?
And still all I keep thinking is how little of this world I’ve seen. How short the life and how long the road.
If I want to see it all, I’ve no time to settle.
I’m grateful the question's been put to rest.
And still all I keep thinking is how little of this world I’ve seen. How short the life and how long the road.
If I want to see it all, I’ve no time to settle.
I’m grateful the question's been put to rest.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Civilisation
Once again tall buildings, wide streets. Unknown people and sprawling suburbs. We spend a relaxing evening with friends by the barbecue, chatting away the hours in our quaint and relaxed settings while the sun sets on beautifully groomed plumerias and quietly landing airplanes.
The warm water of Darling Harbour trickles through my lungs and revives me again. I miss the ocean the minute I get out. It occurs to me again that I am not cityfolk. It has been occurring to me for the past three decades.
It doesn't make me love New York any less.
I suppose, in the end, that's the trouble.
The warm water of Darling Harbour trickles through my lungs and revives me again. I miss the ocean the minute I get out. It occurs to me again that I am not cityfolk. It has been occurring to me for the past three decades.
It doesn't make me love New York any less.
I suppose, in the end, that's the trouble.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
On Travel
We rescued a frog in our bathroom today; my mother suspected it came out of the drain. I stepped outside the house several times to follow the nightly feeding of a giant spider who’d caught a dragonfly in her net. When I stuck my head out from under the roof to get a different view I nearly collided with another of its kind. Their webs span entire stretches of the yard. At dusk, the bush comes alive with kangaroos and birds and other wildlife; Seventh Avenue seems quiet and calm in comparison.
Overall, Seventh Avenue feels terribly far away. Like a dream I had of another life, and then you wake up in the morning in your real world and can’t believe how lifelike it all seemed. I saw a picture of Greenwich Village houses along the West Side Highway in a magazine today and couldn’t quite comprehend that that was my city as well. My accent changes slightly to adhere to local standards; these round American words that come out normally don’t quite seem to fit. I imagine that this is my life, this is my home, and the thought isn’t entirely farfetched. If an Australian voice only spoke softly enough into my ear I believe I could be convinced to stay.
Perhaps such is the magic of travel. A reminder of possibilities unrealized, a reminder of dreams within reach. I could get rid of all my things, I could get up and go. I long to clean out my fifty square feet and prepare to pounce. I long to be ready. If someone, anyone, said Let’s go, I’d be out the door in a heartbeat.
Although the tradeoff would have to be something immensely appealing.
Australia, darling, when will you tell me let’s go?
Overall, Seventh Avenue feels terribly far away. Like a dream I had of another life, and then you wake up in the morning in your real world and can’t believe how lifelike it all seemed. I saw a picture of Greenwich Village houses along the West Side Highway in a magazine today and couldn’t quite comprehend that that was my city as well. My accent changes slightly to adhere to local standards; these round American words that come out normally don’t quite seem to fit. I imagine that this is my life, this is my home, and the thought isn’t entirely farfetched. If an Australian voice only spoke softly enough into my ear I believe I could be convinced to stay.
Perhaps such is the magic of travel. A reminder of possibilities unrealized, a reminder of dreams within reach. I could get rid of all my things, I could get up and go. I long to clean out my fifty square feet and prepare to pounce. I long to be ready. If someone, anyone, said Let’s go, I’d be out the door in a heartbeat.
Although the tradeoff would have to be something immensely appealing.
Australia, darling, when will you tell me let’s go?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
On Sand
Beaches. Stretching into foreverness, beaches. Miles of sand, squeaky sand under my toes and we never reach the end of it. We pass by the beach with the lifeguards; it is crowded. We learn to read the rip tides and stay on our unprotected stretches in solitude. It will tug at you, but if you survive, you are glad you went there.
We move in to the only inhabitable restaurant and bar in town; when they try to close up, we try to order another bottle. We end up bringing it with us when it's too late to stay: how young the bartenders. This is youth; we are too old to do it over. Stepping lightly onto the beach in the dark, we bring our screw cork with us, and the light house in the distance guides us. Somebody has built a fire but we stay in the black ink of our corner, drinking dredges and filling our clothes with sand. Bruises appear on my body but laughter bubbles in my chest. How dark the night, how light the evening.
If I could stay in this alternate reality forever, perhaps I might. Perhaps I should have, when the chance was offered.
What I've learned so far, is it's never too late to take your chances. It's really only you, who stand in your way.
We move in to the only inhabitable restaurant and bar in town; when they try to close up, we try to order another bottle. We end up bringing it with us when it's too late to stay: how young the bartenders. This is youth; we are too old to do it over. Stepping lightly onto the beach in the dark, we bring our screw cork with us, and the light house in the distance guides us. Somebody has built a fire but we stay in the black ink of our corner, drinking dredges and filling our clothes with sand. Bruises appear on my body but laughter bubbles in my chest. How dark the night, how light the evening.
If I could stay in this alternate reality forever, perhaps I might. Perhaps I should have, when the chance was offered.
What I've learned so far, is it's never too late to take your chances. It's really only you, who stand in your way.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Aftermath
Vacation turns my mind to mush, words trickling out of the back of my head and I can't remember there was ever a story I wanted to tell.
But I read through words already written, unedited scribbles in a long scroll, large icebergs of tales longing to be melted and merged into one continuous whole, and I can't help but feel I am onto something.
My body revels in Australia. My skin darkens, my body wears itself out in the currents, my mind relaxes from its obsessive grasp on reality, and I am content.
But I read through words already written, and they remind me of their sparkle, of my incessant love for them. Vacation is beautiful, living out here could save my life, but oh, how New York carries the sparkle. Oh, how New York is home.
But I read through words already written, unedited scribbles in a long scroll, large icebergs of tales longing to be melted and merged into one continuous whole, and I can't help but feel I am onto something.
My body revels in Australia. My skin darkens, my body wears itself out in the currents, my mind relaxes from its obsessive grasp on reality, and I am content.
But I read through words already written, and they remind me of their sparkle, of my incessant love for them. Vacation is beautiful, living out here could save my life, but oh, how New York carries the sparkle. Oh, how New York is home.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Tides
And then the clouds cleared, the sun returned and all was well with the world. I forgot my concerns, my impatient pacings around the living room carpet, and threw myself into the sea again with a laugh. We sat on the neighbors' balcony and let the sun set over the beach, over the cicadas in the bush; I forgot there was ever rain.
But sleep was short, before the storm raged through my open windows and woke me. Hours pass and I find no rest. My teeth worry me, my life worries me. I am wide awake and hungry.
It's such a cliché. How my mood rises and falls with the movements of the clouds. I hang on for dear life.
What other option is there?
But sleep was short, before the storm raged through my open windows and woke me. Hours pass and I find no rest. My teeth worry me, my life worries me. I am wide awake and hungry.
It's such a cliché. How my mood rises and falls with the movements of the clouds. I hang on for dear life.
What other option is there?
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Twist
It rains. Tiny, slow droplets descend like tropical mist onto the trees, the house. Hours pass slowly, and still much too quickly. I think of returning to New York and dread the thought. How pleasant to linger in the dream. My skin tastes salty, sand and seaweed mingle in my hair.
I was giddier when I was younger. Am I too old for sparks and stardust, now?
I was giddier when I was younger. Am I too old for sparks and stardust, now?
Monday, January 3, 2011
Bright Lights, Big City
A soft rain crawls through the valley. The sea is warm but tempestuous; my swim is unusually short. I dive instead into the pile of books I brought. Already, too few remain to sustain me. I pretend to ration them, knowing full well I am bound to fail.
I read over my journal, instead, trying to make sense of the months and the year that have passed. I realize large parts of them were omitted. Heart-wrenching episodes ignored, and I hypothesize that, being left un-recorded, in time they will become untrue. Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
In my latest book, so many familiar street corners. The Village butcher still run by the same name. The bar unfazed by the years. New York is constantly changing, ever a tide of people and places eventually swept out to sea and replaced, but it is still, perpetually New York. I take more comfort in that fact than in any other constant in my life. There aren't that many to begin with.
Now I am here. Wasn't I just in Times Square? he asks from the other end of the earth. As the days turn to months and to another year, I wonder if he will begin to doubt, if his life here will become untrue. Years from now, New York will fade into a distant memory. Will he know it from a trick of the lights?
Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
I read over my journal, instead, trying to make sense of the months and the year that have passed. I realize large parts of them were omitted. Heart-wrenching episodes ignored, and I hypothesize that, being left un-recorded, in time they will become untrue. Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
In my latest book, so many familiar street corners. The Village butcher still run by the same name. The bar unfazed by the years. New York is constantly changing, ever a tide of people and places eventually swept out to sea and replaced, but it is still, perpetually New York. I take more comfort in that fact than in any other constant in my life. There aren't that many to begin with.
Now I am here. Wasn't I just in Times Square? he asks from the other end of the earth. As the days turn to months and to another year, I wonder if he will begin to doubt, if his life here will become untrue. Years from now, New York will fade into a distant memory. Will he know it from a trick of the lights?
Good riddance, perhaps, if it is that easy.
New South Wales Nights
A day of bad weather, but all is relative and the sun still shines for half of it, the breeze is still warm and gentle. The beach empties of all but the surfers, some people have proper jobs and pack up, the holidays over. I sit in a plastic chair behind the house with my own words, trying to edit, trying to do something useful with this time spent out of the water. But my brain will not function.
Somehow everything took a vacation and all we do is sleep. At nine-thirty I am fighting to stay up, and I forget what my normal evenings look like in their refusal to tire. I revel in the luxury, but something in me begins to itch. I haven't a word to mull over, I haven't a thought that cares enough to be processed. I am empty, and when there is time to contemplate that, I miss it. Perhaps I have to sink slowly to the bottom of this delicious, sandy, salty, breezy, warm space, before I can wind my way out of it.
It's not a bad place to be, while waiting.
Somehow everything took a vacation and all we do is sleep. At nine-thirty I am fighting to stay up, and I forget what my normal evenings look like in their refusal to tire. I revel in the luxury, but something in me begins to itch. I haven't a word to mull over, I haven't a thought that cares enough to be processed. I am empty, and when there is time to contemplate that, I miss it. Perhaps I have to sink slowly to the bottom of this delicious, sandy, salty, breezy, warm space, before I can wind my way out of it.
It's not a bad place to be, while waiting.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
TwentyEleven
The night seemed so endless; we couldn't make it to midnight but collapsed in a cocktail of jetlag and exertion hours before the bubbly was to be drunk. I awoke at the cusp of dawn, the sky a fiery red over restless waters and thought Happy New Year, then. The days all seem the same, after all.
My skin changes color, my hair. My back straightens in the fresh air and my mind unwinds. I forget what time it is and don't bother to find out. I exhaust myself in the tides, circle the computer but calmly. The sights, the scents, the sounds, permeate my being until I dissolve into them and they flow unhindered through me.
Perhaps, perhaps I will pack my things together and come here. How many years have I already dreamed it? How real the possibility seems when my feet are already planted on this earth. A new year begins, a socially constructed clean slate, to match the blank page of this journey. I think It is possible and consider my options, while my sister pleads with me to not run to the ends of the earth. I suspect this place has been calling me forever.
New Year. New You. New experiences on the horizon. New opportunities to do that which you did not before. We are not too old. We are not too late.
Now is the time for revelling in the life you've let yourself build.
Now is the time, to live.
My skin changes color, my hair. My back straightens in the fresh air and my mind unwinds. I forget what time it is and don't bother to find out. I exhaust myself in the tides, circle the computer but calmly. The sights, the scents, the sounds, permeate my being until I dissolve into them and they flow unhindered through me.
Perhaps, perhaps I will pack my things together and come here. How many years have I already dreamed it? How real the possibility seems when my feet are already planted on this earth. A new year begins, a socially constructed clean slate, to match the blank page of this journey. I think It is possible and consider my options, while my sister pleads with me to not run to the ends of the earth. I suspect this place has been calling me forever.
New Year. New You. New experiences on the horizon. New opportunities to do that which you did not before. We are not too old. We are not too late.
Now is the time for revelling in the life you've let yourself build.
Now is the time, to live.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Rip Tide
My body collapses, my steps slow and I fall onto the sand. It's time for a break. But then I turn around, I see the sea rolling to shore, turquoise waves crashing one by one into white froth at the water's edge, and I cannot help myself: I am pulled back in. I dive quickly into approaching waves, swimming feverishly out, out to where the big swells are. I try to stand but the current is strong, it pulls me to the side and I fight it, fight it, until I simply let go and am swept away. Far away I spot it: the next big wave. I wait for it, gauge where it will crest, position my body just right, until I feel that familiar tug backwards, leap in, and surf all the way to shore in one long, overwhelmingly powerful roll. I immediately dive back out, let my body float across green and blue waters until the moment is right again.
Hours pass, I am oblivious to their steady gait. Nothing is relevant but the next wave, the next dive, the feeling of cool Pacific water against my skin. When we leave the beach, I stare at it from the house and long for it, immediately. Much later, I still feel the push and pull of the ocean on my body. Every breath a roll of the tide.
I am lost to sea. I am found.
Hours pass, I am oblivious to their steady gait. Nothing is relevant but the next wave, the next dive, the feeling of cool Pacific water against my skin. When we leave the beach, I stare at it from the house and long for it, immediately. Much later, I still feel the push and pull of the ocean on my body. Every breath a roll of the tide.
I am lost to sea. I am found.
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