In an effort to keep busy,
you slide off the seawall.
He and his friends strangle the dunes
in a haze of menthol.
You wish you had something to say,
but don’t want to impose.
You think, ‘What better time to snap
a few instant photos?’
Up on the highest balcony,
you marvel at the view.
You swear the coastline is breathing,
across the sprawling blue.
A yellow advisory flag
waves on a metal pole.
Caution: modest surf and currents.
No sign of beach patrol.
The same hue, nearly out of view,
catches your roaming eye.
His well-worn yellow shorts stand out
from the clear summer sky.
They throw hollowed crawfish corpses
into the fine contour.
The moment is not lost on you.
Both so foreign and pure.
The grinding camera gears eject
a few frames from your eyes.
A memory that will live on,
the same instant it dies.
This royal blue token of time,
suddenly made bereft.
Just as you return, he proclaims,
I didn’t know you left!
First test for the key & melody of the song version:
Excerpt from [Working Title Non-Fiction Piece – 2020]
Afternoon Sun
I park next to the long row of townhomes I visit every time I drive to the beach. Their stucco walls cracked – some from the foundation to the roof. The units remain half empty from last hurricane season’s outstanding damages. The patchy brown paint chipped from years of constant salt corrosion and sun bleaching. More reminders of both time that has passed, and time that will inevitably follow suit.
My grandparents rent out one of the building’s units, though even when filled with beach bums or snowbirds, I venture here to clear my head. There is something in the air that’s humbling in nature. Something for the head. Something for the heart.
I lift myself onto the seawall separating the parking lot from the towering sand dunes. The sun is white – not yellow. And I can’t help but imagine myself laying on the sand and sinking into all of its warmth. Buried like a seed. Burrowing into the countless fragments of rock, quartz, and ancient sea life. Knowing one day, when Spring’s rain reaches the bulb of my body, my aventurine tinted stem will stretch towards that great, white light. Knowing my petals, smooth like morpho wings, will soak in the eons of stories that light surely has to tell.
They all arrive in a silver-stained compact car five minutes into my inglorious daydream. I quickly pull my buried astral form back to my physical one, so I could appear somewhat present.
First, Cameron totters out of the back of the vehicle mid conversation, fumbling over his shoes and towel. He sways with the breeze in his navy swim trunks, and I presume he’s as high as the distant checkered parasail I saw when first I arrived. We make eye contact, but he shifts back to the conversation with his friends.
Sheridan steps out of the driver’s seat wearing a teal two piece and a pair of beaten up sunglasses. I envy her body but tell myself I don’t know why. Her flushed skin, blonde hair, and saturated clothing make her shine like a beacon against the refracting asphalt. Meanwhile, I am in black with my shirt on, perched and shrinking at the thought of who I am meant to be, and what parts of myself I am meant show to these specific people.
The final door swings open, and Logan coolly makes his way to the other side of the car. He is in yellow. He looks so good in yellow.
As the three of them start to walk in my direction, I notice Cameron carrying one of those annual popcorn buckets movie theaters attempt to pawn off on customers. Only this one wasn’t filled with popcorn, but with enough crawfish for him to be dropping one at least every five steps he took. I lose my appetite.
Small ants climb up the cracked seawall while the three friends engage in conversations or anecdotes of their past together. I can’t add much to the conversation. Their shared history alienates me, and I think about the fact that I'm a very recent blip in the timeline of all of their lives – only here listening to the waves because of a drunken hookup I had with Logan that evolved into an often-disorientating half relationship the previous summer. It becomes hard to sit still, so I use the wall as a balance beam. Avoiding the crawfish – not the ants. The number of casualties beneath my feet is unknown.
In an effort to keep myself busy, I decide it’s the perfect time to take some photos. So, I slide off the wall, feeling the impact of the ground shoot up my Achilles, and use my key to get into the condo so I could take some instant photos from the balcony. The interior is about what most would expect in a dilapidated condo. Beach themed wall art hung in every room, couches and bedding covered in leafy green patterns, and several water stains from the consistent damage to the roof. It looks as it's always looked. Much to my comfort. Even as I make my way to the second story balcony, I sit in the same stools that my feet used to dangle aimlessly off of, though now they sit flat on the floor.
I aim the Polaroid 600 camera I found in my parents spare bedroom and can't help but marvel at the view. The tide pushes and pulls with each breath as I try to figure out if the water level is receding or rising. An occasional clang of metal cuts through the scene as the yellow advisory flag whips against its poll. The hue contrasting against an expansive blue. Caution. Light surf and currents.
Nearly out of my view, the same hue catches my eye on the seawall. Logan and Cameron laugh as they throw hollowed crawfish corpses at each other while Sheridan lies on her back with her eyes closed, seemingly unaware of the meteor shower taking place inches away from her. The moment is not lost on me. It seems pure, though at the same time, foreign. I snap a picture of the moment, and the loud gears of the camera spit out an oblique purple blob.
When I returned to the seawall after several prolonged, wedded breaths with the tide, I shared some of the instant photos that had already developed during my absence. The first thing they told me was that they hadn’t noticed I was gone.
After all the bottom feeders had been consumed, the four of us make our way over the dunes and to the shore. A breeze whips across the barren coastline, and for a split second, makes me forget what time of year it is. Or maybe what year it is all together.
They're all thrashing about in the water while I rest against the exposed dunes and a sign that borders the public and private beaches. My toes dig their roots into the sand, anchoring my worn-out feet to the earth. Logan urged me to get in the water with them, and though my heart said yes, my body said no.
It's not because I don’t want to be near them, or even that I’m not having a good time, I've just always enjoyed observing the details of what's around me. Even as they are one car park away, the world cannot seem any clearer. Each muscle contracts in slow motion as Cameron chases Sheridan into deeper waters. The surf and the wind compete for which one can sound more like the other. Lightning dips from the patchy sky and kisses an oil rig on the horizon.
The beauty of these arguably insignificant details is in the fact that they will never happen in the same way again. Of course, the oil rig will be struck by lightning, but it will never be accompanied by the same attributes that live in this moment. It'll be on a different day. Or in different weather. Or with someone else present to witness its glowing brilliance.
The pain in these details is not lost on me. I understand my desire to cling to these fleeting moments can often be burdensome. Not to just remember, but to relive every moment that has slipped between my fingers. Even now, the sun is setting, and the nuclear sky it creates will forever be etched into my mind. As will the caressing mist from a grass covered hose. As will laughter from friends being consumed by the tide. As will each of the eidolon’s barbed judgements.
Though for now,
all I can think about is how bad
I want to see a beach mouse.
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