The beach is windy today. It blows the sands upon me; thousands upon more miniscule peppering of stones cling, and simper, and lean upon me.
They all decided to cling to me the moment I plopped down, and the wind took up, and the arch of my shoulder’s hunch against the brisk wind made a hollow for them to storm in and gather upon my boots, thighs, stomach, and breasts. When they began to find too much fondness for my face I closed my eyes, suffered the buffeting of the prickles of sand thrown against lips and eyelids and cheek hollows, until displeased with the lack of vision I pushed myself to a standing position and brushed them off.
It occurred to me, as this happened, the intellectual voice inside my head informed me in a lecture type way, that the grains of sand could be likened to thought-forms. This continued with similar thoughts leading outwards like, if each grain is a thought-form than the wind would be the energy which drives. The wind blows the sands around like energy flows thoughts into our minds, and each can cling to us, be grasped and picked up in handfuls, and slowly let fall through widened fingers, then excess brushed off. Some, of course, linger. They cling to skin and clothes and shoes. They cling to lips and hair and sit between our teeth to find when we taste them later. But they can be discarded, eventually. And they do remain just what they are, millions of tiny forms, at the ready of an eager wind, to blow around the vast empty corners of our minds, and create a storm if left to chase tail in such sinkholes.
As I walked the sand–where the sea gently lapped up and away– lightened as my weight pressed down. It was as if beneath my black cowboy boots with the pointed toes, there was a halo. A light like from some divine play to highlight each tread as I treaded it. And I watched this marvel and I wondered which was this in the brain? Neuron emission? The white light you see when you roll closed eyes too far in one direction? Evidence of soul? I never did decide on that ones identity. I did become too caught with the sight of sand, wet, collecting upon the tip of my boot sole and then thrown forward with each pointed toe as I walked. Like clomps of thoughts all affinity thrown into the future to be thought again at a later date. And the water would be the magnetic link holding them in company.
But what of the sea and sun and sky? What of the space that exists between sky and sand? What of the land which stretches beyond the sand and sea? What be all of they? And what of the refuse which lies in the sand?– Bottles worn by the taste of the sand grains running down harsher edges, pieces of discarded plastics and styrophomes. And Starbucks empty cups laying in wait to capture more sand.– Even the dead jelly’s and shell fishes lie upon the sand and half in it, like little way stations here and there. They also collect sand. What be they?– And the leaves and the seaweed. And what of the seagulls which stand feet locked in wet sand as the sea laps up around them then away again? And what of the coolness when the sun hides behind clouds or when it is stark against a naked sky and hot upon the sands? What does it be?
To all these questions the answers could be found, but I find it tedious to continue to so. It real was just a passing fancy, this exorcize of analogy; product of an idle, stimulation starved mind. As I walked back from the beach– which met the sea– to the beach– which met the boardwalk– the wind was too strong for me. I felt it as though it ran straight through me, like my chest was a open heart hole, which didn’t feel quite right so I turned myself around and walked backwards all the way back. It was an interesting perspective and also reminiscent of my analogy. We go forward through our lives with our back turned, watching where we’ve been, never seeing where we go unless we turn around. But if you turn around the wind’s too strong an energy. Eventually you either turn back around or just close your eyes. Either way, you still walk blind.
However, I did turn around just as I reached the fence, before I would have bumped into it; I guess I remembered where it was in the brief look forward. So, perhaps there’s something to be said for looking into the wind upon an occasion, for as long as you can handle it.