Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Pockets Full of Sand

When times change.  When times are changing.  A'changing.

I can could hear the sound of my own thinking.  I was a pit of sorrow and telling myself it really was fine.  The sand slowly shifted towards me and where it gathered it started to swallow me whole.  It felt like the accumulation of every day I spent at the beach in my underwear.  My legs no longer visible had no feeling and it was a strange and uncanny disposition to be both legless and feeling fine about it.  And in a calm and relaxed matter I accepted the fact my legs had left me.  The sand sheets were falling one after another and I did not try struggle, nor panic, nor fear, or have feeling at all.  Each grain was washing me away.  All I could think of is the cyan glow and darkness of night fall on a rainy day.  The atmosphere inside a car, the tapping sound then followed by a distorted view as the raindrops fell against the window.  The wind blowing them aside.  The trees swaying to the wind.  The swoosh sound of tires on water asphalt.  The beams of headlight piercing the darkness.  The feeling of the day ending.  Of leaving the beach after a long day of sun, waves, and fun.  That glowing conclusion, that ocean turning inside of you.  That wonderful feeling that adventure gives birth to.  We had gone to that beach a hundred times and yet here like always that feeling, damn, what a great feeling.  The salt of the sea and damp hair, my pockets full of sand, that sounds like a pop song, "My Pockets Full of Sand".

In your arms tonight (whoa-whoa-whoa).

How long has it been since I allowed my hands their curiosity?  When have I let my legs wrap around and hold.  When was the last time it felt right to evade the boundaries of another without the feeling of evasion.  Philm covered flesh, the thinnest and cleanest of separations, from one property to another.  From me to you.

(stop this before it gets too corny, too rosy, and it becomes an excerpt from a romance novel)

I remember the feeling of powerlessness.  I remember feeling foolish being there, and how that feeling, that grand sense of the fool wasn't out of place, nor had it suddenly appeared like whoa.  That feeling has always been there, hidden, forgotten, pushed aside, and sank into the subconsciousness.  Something Freud would said before talking about my mother.  I remember looking up and seeing a distance too far but yet I could reach.  I remember the feeling of a vibrating pocket, of talking about Zen, about being a romantic or a classical thinker as I walked away from that site.  I remember seeing where you were, in a grassy field somewhere in the Hampton's, surrounded by exquisite foods and drunk journalists.  I remember the parking lot with your bus waiting for all the passengers to return.  You finding a spot to talk, to call me or was it I who called you?  I remember how shitty I felt and how you made me laugh.  And I remember most at how much I learned not to care, not to try and hold on to something too hot to handle, too wild to be tamed, and too far to reach.  You may have never held my hand and pushed me in that direction, but you made me realized something I learned not too long ago: to step back from the edge of one world to the next, and to be my own, to see the world, and know it is a clockwork with gears able to grind your fingers off and you may try your hardest to turn those gears the opposite direction, to hold on dearly, for your life, for love, but it will never fucking happen.  When a heavy object is set into motion, such as a train, or a rolling boulder, they have too much force pushing them forwards that they cannot stop immediately, and if they were to stop on a dime their world would be destroyed.  Going down a steep hill on my bike I saw a taxi cab decide to do a left turn in front of me, I braked hard, that motherfucker, I was going 50kph easy and fear struck my body with the vision of my front wheel hitting the side of that impatient cabby the rest of the bike with me included pivoting from that point and my back lifting to the air, my hair floating upwards, the air being knocked out of my lungs, rising higher and higher and being thrown off my bike and over the car and my hands reaching out in front of me, my legs bashing against my saddle, the side of the car, the hood, the window and clearing the car entirely.  My body will float and I will fly for just a moment.  I will feel zero g only to be crushed like a can against asphalt.  I will be destroyed by the law of gravity.  That harsh harsh harsh thing right now.  And the flow of life will return again, with me breathing heavily, in a ball of blood and broken bones, disoriented and awakening from a dream that isn't a dream.  We need to fall in order to become strong enough to prevent it from happening again.  And when we get soft we fall.

That was the beginning of probably the funnest summers I have ever had.  I lost close to 15lbs from just laughing, hard.  With spring in the air, those ANGRY BIRDS chirping away and being glad to be back, the cherries in blossom, and my goddamn nose and eyes in allergy hell, I am ready for the sequel to last summer.

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