The Same Deep Water As You

February 7, 2010 at 1:37 am (Sea) (, )

We find the hagstones amongst the poison salt-muck of the docks. The grime of this boat’s bed comes up in submerged, swampy clouds that lap perilously high at our green-blue rubber boots. He turns; a profile of stern, angular humour, pale eyes empty, smile like unfolding paper shapes. We plunge our numb, pink hands in past the plastic cider bottles, jellied weeds and grazing concrete to collect these stones, ashen and cold, a perfect hole through the centre. We jam them into the pockets of my thin summer dress as we walk. Dusk – the shoreline turns to wild, geometric shadow-shapes. Perhaps the whole dock is reflected in his
the curves of a lit horizon, the pier’s jagged outline. He takes the penknife (it is so small in his rough, bark worn hand. It is so cold) and makes an opening in the shell of barbed wire that protects the hollow underbelly of the pier. Inside the floor is old stone, glass and needle, a metal crater becomes our table. We are to take a hagstones between the thumb and forefinger, caress, wish, look through its empty stone eye, we are to see the future, we are not to believe a single movement of the ritual – but perhaps you saw. I threw every one out to sea.
Today we are fervently beautiful, and need no enchantment in our brief lives.


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Staring at the Sea, Staring at the Sand.

October 20, 2009 at 12:46 pm (Rooms, Sea) (, , , )

The point when you realise where you are. Sand covered, shivering, soaked to the knees and blue lipped. Your feet are cut, and you dread the next step. How far have you walked? The sudden blank sickness that makes you walk purpousfully away. Fearlessly walk towards nothing. But before you always stopped. Awoke from the trance, realised you were stupid. Possetions held you back before. Why do they suddenly not matter? And why now is your journy to “away” leading you straight into the freezing midnight sea? Why did its first cold bite mean nothing?
You were not content when you started that bee-line wander, but nor were you unhappy.

Why did you suddenly have to walk?

The sea slows before your eyes, freezes into crinkled paper. There is no choice. Just a thousand unvoiced, unformed alternatives. Your lips flake salt and the grit burns your thighs as you sink to the ground. Your clothes feel unclean, but can you bear to part with this last cold, heavy embrace? Someone must see you before you become an idea. You realise, bit by bit, that you are the absence, defined only in relation to others lusts and fears. Their forgotton thoughts become death sentences.
A sudden stillness. The sea laps, the wind burns in whips. But you are still. You feel yourself hot, a furious blush burns your cheeks. The bones are dead still. Stagger up, the waves cling and tug . Step by sodden step, how could you run? Run back to a void with four walls, a cornered life sentence to gaze eye to black eye with a stranger. To vainly numb your hunger for fire with a candle. Grinning, lungs shake to sickness with laughter. Your skin and hair rain sand onto the sheets and you shake yourself onto this second sea bed.

Awake in the gathering sun, stiff from salted hair to blue nailed feet.

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