People talk about the ocean as if it is this glorious place. The beach is a paradise. Filled with human-shaped lizards baking in the blazing sun and covered in crusty grit called sand that invades everything, refusing to leave. Because not even the sand wants to stay at the(more) beach. It wants to get in your hair and clothes and come home with you, away from the salty fish pond known as the ocean.
There is no such thing as an ocean paradise. It is a salt water solution filled with strange creatures. They may look the work of art, but art is meant to be cherished from a distance. You don't go bathing in piles of Picasso. They dangerous of swimming in the ocean are more real than the bruises and paper cuts you would get from diving into pools of art.
The ocean is not paradise. Give me shafts of light streaming through leaves to illuminate the ground below, piercing cool shade to paint an image of contrasts surrounded by hues of calming green and practical browns.
Simplistic and familiar. That is where paradise lies. Not in the strange and astounding. Comfort and bliss is found in relaxing places. The forest is close and embracing, filled with air to encourage calming breaths. The ocean is open and vulnerable and if you try to take a breath to calm yourself, you will drown yourself in it. (less)
erase, write, erase, write, right write not right is still right--how did long ago happen so quick. the change in breath, a softening of middle--it isn't possible to use up all of your words on other people, the children, the children--before, i still never finished my stories. all stories(more) begin with an opening and are forgotten before they can close. the story is a thread to be pulled and with the pull an unraveling of some great fabric, only be rewoven into a new fabric--that is what writing is--the reknitting of memory, rethinking of what was , what happened in my mind and what could have been--it is too much to be plagued by what could have been, the space between want and reality, where my mom says, adina really, you should really think less. it doesn't matter, your thoughts, their thoughts, the thoughts of the space between want and happened. the writing of the story is not separate from living the life, from weaving disjointed moments into a cohesive narrative, one which meaning can be derived from, one in which there is a hero and the hero is on a journey and the moments of sad and the moments of WTF are all pieced together in a strange quilt more beautiful than the reality of what happened.
this is why i should write--it is a new way of breathing, a new way of seeing and lately i've been doing a lot of dododododo and dont think about it--the things that happen wash over me like a strong wave and i wake up in the morning and even from my bed i feel the gravity of school, magnetic force of my job tugging at me like a child, needy, dependent, constant.
without the breath of other thoughts, i am alone(less)
My main vice is swimming. Sometimes I settle for the community centre pool. But even in the winter I will wade into the ocean. Clumsy breaststroke.
On the way to work every morning I imagine the city differently. It is a soothing exercise, like progressive relaxation, only in(more) reverse: progressive destruction.
Because I can't feel at home here, where everything has been sculpted to coax the money out of our pockets, where the streets are mean and grey, and the city does not open up to us unless we have our bank cards in hand. Life is out of control, it is a bounding pulse. Our sleep is shallow, and claustrophobia constricts us even in our dreams.
So I imagine the trees older and taller, as if the bulldozers never came. I imagine the landscape recoiling from the tended edges.
Streets sink and grass smothers the pavement, corporate signs fall down and are replaced by unobstructed views of the mountains.
The sea turns green again, as the sun hits clean salt instead of oil patches.
Glass towers turn to sand, and the ocean reclaims the land fills.
I imagine an ocean paradise where I can breathe underwater. This fantasy sustains me as I look at Burrard inlet from the windows of my job on the twelfth floor of nowhere. I swim year-round, winter and summer, because the sea gives me something I can't explain. I can't shiver away a certain satisfaction even when frost speckles the driftwood and the sand is like ice.
In the summer I can float happily as a corpuscle, my shoes left behind like a farewell note on the shore. I drift farther and farther, my ears just underneath the waves so that all I can hear is the systolic thumping of the green, boundless sea.(less)
Crack. Jytos felt another jolt of his spine as it readjusted to the labour of his hands. The wall was almost built, and soon he and his wife would have home, and by extension a thermostat. When they first found themselves floating on the liquid glass they pushed each(more) other with joy. They looked like giant fish, splashing without a thought for time or ambition. Food was speared, and water filtered through a fortunate sequence of rocks. Soon, however, their minds caught up with them, and they reminisced of their solid bed and closed off bedroom. So Jytos, further saddened by his wifes glum face, proposed to build them a small house in the shallow part of the water. Once more giggled with delight. The sun was hot, and unforgiving on his project, but the rocks were too hard to see at night. 13 nights later the house was completed, and Jytos looked triumphantly at his success. The night gave them time to cuddle, and their door allowed them to alter their heat accordingly. Soon they began to dread the day, for it would take them away from their comfort and break the dream that they were back home with family and friends. Jytos decided he would build a boat.(less)