In the heat and sun of late June, I gazed out across coarse dry sand and tuned into and back out of conversation being had about people who’s lives have ended, who I have no connection to. I watched the bodies of the people on the beach in the hot sun, skin pink and irritated. The abundance and white of the oyster shells along the beach was stark and startling. Time passed slowly that Saturday as I daydreamed about my life, read idly the words of Tom Robbins, pondered what was for dinner.
Some days, I am at a loss for words. Lately, it seems I barely have the ability to string together cohesive sentences in text form outside of a conversation. I am bothered by my inability to talk or wax philosophical about my photographs; I want to tell you, dear reader, about how the world continues to tell me secrets about it’s beauty. It has given me someone who’s face and smile makes my heart lighter, who’s body next to mine feels a little bit like coming home, who’s brain makes me feel like I am not alone in opinions and outlooks. I do not know what we are or where we are going (if anywhere) but it does not seem to matter very much when we are together. The goodness of the situation trumps the gross, intrusive, inconsequential negative thoughts that keeping coming up about myself, my body, my brain, my history.
Dear reader, I really don’t know and it is really fantastic.