Weekend by the sea

Evening: I'm sitting on a kitchen chair facing the sea. It's dark but the sky streaks light in places, illuminates the moving water. Rounded slopes of dusky shadow form mountains across the strait. I'd like to settle in their inky curves. A steady breeze lifts my hair, like feathers blowing out to sea.

I feel something opening. Something I've felt before, but long ago. I'm tempted to nail the experience down like with a hammer to a board, but I know better now. And so I stay still, breathe.


The next morning: The sea is gentle; the birds dip and call out to each another. The mountains across the strait are as they were last night. Rounded off, no sharp edges. Coffee is hot and strong. Some landscapes are more soothing than others. The prairies have always beckoned, the desert, too. But I'd forgotten the balm of the sea.

I wonder what it would be like to have a bird's view of the world; to fly across the strait and land on a cresting wave? Are birds driven purely by instinct? Do they experience pleasure in their little bodies, too?

Most days I prefer my own company. I like the word outskirts.

Afternoon: I'm observing my fear at play. An older man is sitting on a log several feet away. It's a sweet picture, actually. His little dog is in his lap and they're both looking out at the sea. Still, I had the thought when I saw him that he could be a child molester with a gigabyte of kiddie porn on his computer's hard drive.

Recently I read a passage in a book that said we can feel if we're being watched in the woods. I don't know that I would. For so many years I felt like I was always being watched. And I think there's an obliviousness that accompanies that kind of fear, making it almost impossible to see reality.

Once when I was walking through a wooded area in a park I came across a man standing in an open raincoat, naked and jerking off. He stared right at me and I looked away, ashamed.

Two young women are taking pictures of themselves on the beach. I don't know how I can tell they are young women or how I know that the man with the dog is older. From this distance I can't distinguish physical features. Everyone is cloaked in heavy coats. Still, I can make out the difference between man and woman, old and young.

I'm in between. In between decades. According to the world I live in I should be almost halfway through a career, in mid-life crisis, with two pre-teens. Instead, I am free at last, but not really. I'm still caught in a hundred nets of my own creation and, of course, social protocol (Thou shalt not kill and Always wipe your feet at the door).


The last day: Rain drips from the eaves. Sea birds make their morning rounds. Tide's coming in. It's wilder than yesterday: windier, colder, choppier at sea. Eagles stretch out overhead instead of robins hopping on the lawn.

For years I reflected emptiness. Pretty pictures caught and suspended in mid-air. I like the word outskirts.