It's raining here on the point under a super black moon morning. It's quiet and dim. It's my favorite time of day. I'm awake, alert and inspired. I drink my coffee alone when I can, headphones blocking out the world, my very own version of an apocalypse bunker complete with stores for years, if not longer. I can write and play with words and draw and music myself up until I'm ready to be released into the known world where we are hellbent on socializing, being together or whatever that thing is called where I must exhaustingly interact with other humans because that's what one is supposed to do.
Maybe it's me. I tolerate so few of them. Like the sun. I can handle it (if I must) while I'm gardening but if I'm at the beach I want this weather, always. Darkened skies and brackish teal. Muted foggy green and dampened lamp-black shores, holding their secrets closer as they wait for the light.
Today brings a new personal outrage as I need to bring my glasses to the beach. From far I can spot the sea glass pieces but once I pick them up I then need to put on my glasses to see if they're ready for saving or need more work. This is my true garden where I cultivate the legacy of how water smoothes the rough edges, softens the violence of a shard, mutes the screams of my victims-
(Okay maybe ignore that last part, for that is simply wishful thinking and nothing more.)
Little blind-and-deaf Bridget is watched closely, red eyes blinking out of the darkness by the edge of the steps. Always close enough to run. Always far enough to try and afford a graceful sort of mock-privacy. I set my coffee cup down on a large flat rock and he stirs in concern, pretending to shift his position sitting on the third step up, coffee cup nestled in capable hands.
I find a singular treasure and pull my glasses back down over my eyes to look more closely. The edges are smooth and cloudy, pitted and round. Perfect. It's hard to find the white and pale blue pieces. Mostly I find green and brown. Each color has a value and I'm suddenly rich. Each piece has a weight and I'm suddenly heavy. Each day has a number and suddenly this one means something.
Maybe it's me. I tolerate so few of them. Like the sun. I can handle it (if I must) while I'm gardening but if I'm at the beach I want this weather, always. Darkened skies and brackish teal. Muted foggy green and dampened lamp-black shores, holding their secrets closer as they wait for the light.
Today brings a new personal outrage as I need to bring my glasses to the beach. From far I can spot the sea glass pieces but once I pick them up I then need to put on my glasses to see if they're ready for saving or need more work. This is my true garden where I cultivate the legacy of how water smoothes the rough edges, softens the violence of a shard, mutes the screams of my victims-
(Okay maybe ignore that last part, for that is simply wishful thinking and nothing more.)
Little blind-and-deaf Bridget is watched closely, red eyes blinking out of the darkness by the edge of the steps. Always close enough to run. Always far enough to try and afford a graceful sort of mock-privacy. I set my coffee cup down on a large flat rock and he stirs in concern, pretending to shift his position sitting on the third step up, coffee cup nestled in capable hands.
I find a singular treasure and pull my glasses back down over my eyes to look more closely. The edges are smooth and cloudy, pitted and round. Perfect. It's hard to find the white and pale blue pieces. Mostly I find green and brown. Each color has a value and I'm suddenly rich. Each piece has a weight and I'm suddenly heavy. Each day has a number and suddenly this one means something.