In the past, a sepuchre.
A way to mark and remember the past.
Now a sign to navigate travelers over land and sea.
Still searching for my own.
A desire to be guided, if only I could spot them.
A stack of phrases, precarious, yet weighted.
I let the colors fall away under my shoes, into the dried cracks of concrete. Ancient miniature craters. My eyes travel out past the slope of sand to the pale water rolling in the distance. Sounds of reggae and snippets of conversation drift past. The air starts to embrace that inevitable chill. That coldness against which I brace myself. On the warmest afternoon, I know it is lurking in the back corner of the city, just waiting to let its fingers settle on the back of my neck. I spend my days searching for the talisman to keep it at bay.
Looking down as the day leans on into dusk. Making sure to step between the branches. At night, my chin lifts, eyes searching for the moon. There she is, tucked in the crux of strung lights, hovering just above the streetlamp.
Less than a week apart, the same sun falls on the crown of my head, but it occupies a different space. The colorful energy of one morning, compared to the calm, coolness of another. One not better than the other, but the observation causes a pause.
1.) $5 found on the ground
2.) boat horns heard in the bay at night
3.) too many coincidences to count
4.) the scraping of a skateboard on the sidewalk
5.) a tanned nose
6.) overly-juicy plums
7.) a windy phone conversation with a good friend
8.) Henry Miller’s Big Sur
9.) the comfort of a burning third eye
10.) surf discussions and grilled cheese
