“Some of us wake up, others roll over” – Mark Twight (legendary badass)
When they wake up they go down to the water for no particular reason. They bathe in the humid light of the new day and exchange briny exhalations with the sea as it rises and falls with the swells. Meanwhile, photographers crawl like insects on the spine of the rocks in a pathetic attempt to capture the perfect shot: they’re clearly missing the point. It’s not the shot but the scene. It’s in the yearning, the desire to move with and become one with the diamond as it glitters in the pyrite of the sun. Shine on you crazy little insects.
It’s in the play of clouds when everything is alright forever and forever and forever until the light fades and you find yourself alone in the mist wondering why the hell your eyes are still open when there’s nothing left to see. It’s revealed in the paralysis of the sudden frown of realization that it’s all been seen and said anyway – why even bother to write about it or snap a photo to try and capture it? A snapshot of time on a summer evening – might as well try to grasp it in your fist – but here’s a vain attempt.
The sun sets every night but will you rise in the morning? Most days you will, until… well never mind. Until then it will be glorious if you look at it in the right light.
It will be glorious when the light bends, transmutes and flares over the cove. It will be sizzling and alive overhead like the hands of angels reaching out to touch the soul as the beat of the waves lapping against the side of the lobster boat drives the scene. In the distance thunder will bellow a muffled roar then be heard no more. No rain will fall tonight as the storm is headed downeast on the wind.That’s when the scene will be complete, when it’s never ending and moving on into the depths of the night.
But until then there’s nothing to see here. Only the mist of a dream and the song of the sea.
“The page is long, blank, and full of truth. When I am through with it, it shall probably be long, full, and empty with words.” – Jack Kerouac