a life in beaches

Laying on fallen trees that line the bluffs, nothing but the sound of the tide to fill the pitch night and shooting stars flying across the sky. The salt of the sea left a taste like no other on our tongues. Few words to describe an experience that takes the whole body itself to devote all the senses; the chill of the evening filling my feet and lower back. Rocks flying through the universe, travelling quicker than we might ever know and burning out; time and space will draw life from everthing that exists and does not exist all within itself. My mind wanders back to sunrises in the harbor, salty skin next to a pillow and the tide rocking in and out.

babs

A summer in New Hampsire meant days on Lake Winnipesaukee, when the sun was so bright that it made the freckles on her nose and shoulders appear; my cheekbones the color of strawberries and both of us with eventual tans. I would spend two months touring the small towns of NH, vising local haunts like the bridge where it was suggested that adolescents committed suicide, or just the place their angst drove them to indulge in drugs and promiscuity. We would ride past the abandoned paper mill, watching water race under our feet and wonder about the workers who had been misplaced when the mill was closed. And of course, the supposed whore house on the corner, looking susupicially like a crack house. The big pink house, I came to believe, was a place for single women, lacking money to sustain themselves and motivation to better their situation, so they turned to communal living and prostituting their bodies. This might never be confirmed.

In the afternoons, we would pack up the car with beach towels, cameras, books, our writing supplies, and of course, Thomas. Thomas was Babs' cousin, who began living with her family nearly six months before I arrived for the summer. His room was filled with more toys than one child could possibly play with in a week, and the had a love for cartoons, particularly those in the early hours of Saturday when he insisted we eat lucky charms in front of the television with him. He did not speak like other 10 year olds, nor did he have too many friends around that summer, so Babs and I took him everywhere we went. He did not understand our motivations for dragging him through the mall, or Big Lots, but he loved being around, was crazy about asking questions and never let Babs forget he was in the car. Thomas must have thanked her 100 times in a day for taking him with us.

Trips to the thrift store for $1 brown bag buys would consist of sorting for hours while Thomas would rummage through old jackets and suits, asking about every piece he stumbled across. He loved the shoes and would try them on, every pair at least once, and waltz around the store. The cement floors made me nervous as one clumsy move on his part could become quite a scene for the emotional youngster. Once the bag was filled with our most prized thrift finds, we would return to the car and drive to find the next place for creative reuse. New Hampshire, I am told, is known for thrift stores in odd small towns where some make an entire vacation out of bargain hunting and rifling through disregarded treasures.

the color red

recognizing potential and desire
lust for the morning makes my knees weak

Fire

From the house on Lake St. Catherine to Green Mountain College, the drive may not have been 20 minutes.  Past the golf course where the curve in the road made me grip the door handle, and the aged woman constantly fixing her rickety shack of a house.  The drive would take almost 40 minutes on that frosty October morning.  The previous night, through the blur of snow and wind and winding roads, it seemed to take an eternity.  This morning, we would not cross over the semi frozen lake, not today when my newly frostbitten toes were just regaining their consciousness.

Trees like waves of heat and sky the color of smoke.  If fall was here now, winter must be on its way.  Crisp winds cutting night that sound like echoes through train tunnels.  I did not understand what was meant by the "dead of winter" until I spent my first of the season in Vermont.  Strangely enough, fall is never as long as it is given credit; when leaves change from green to yellow orange, you know it will be over.  Soon the ground will be covered with the crunch of green and remnants of summer. 

Princeton Harbor

The tide is out now, exposing sand mud flats that make ripples and tease sea gulls up and down the beach.  Gold flakes catch the sun and glare up at you from the sand; upon reaching down the flecks disappear into ordinary grains of sediment.  Kelp and seaweed litter the landscape, stinking and saturated from under the water's surface; a green brighter than the surrounding hillsides.  Birds walk carefully over the tops of dried sea plants as I sink through cushions of earth, plagued with cold feet, graced with wet sand between my toes. 

At dusk, the sea gull flock that have been exploring the beach fly in unison over the abandoned fishing pier.  Their wings are iridescent, catching the glare from the ocean, caught between water and sky.  The flock will get lost in the fog as my eyes will not be able to follow them past the pier; their iridescence now radiating behind clouds.  This time of year, the water creeps so close to the rip raff and leaves little room for walking; winter storms raged with such drama to bring yachts up into the front garden and keels buried in the sand; plant life ripped from the sea floor and spread across the beach; evidence of nature's unpredictability.

Spotlights from fishing ships will take the place of alarm clocks, waking me several times and interrupting dream cycles.  The drone of the foghorn fades in and out like the tide; depending on the direction of the wind and your familiarity with the harbor, its call gets absorbed by the landscape and by one's ears. 

shadow graffitti

someone did me the pleasure of tracing various shadows in sidewalk chalk, across the town.  thank you for being inspired by that which you cannot change.

broken bikes

Broken bikes, orphaned bikes. Bikes that are left to fate, locked to street signs, stripped of their value. No one owns their skeletons, but they had an owner at one time, someone to oil their chains and fix brakes. This is all too familiar this weekend. How can a place address such a situation.