My view of my favorite place on earth has been blocked. The web cam on MacMillan Wharf in Provincetown has changed hands, and is now the property of more stingy owners. The demands of commercialization have taken it down, as inevitably as the grasping sea took down the bluffs in Chatham after the breach.
this is all I do. You may well know. I bear that as neither badge, nor shame, but only as a fact. And I do it well; not this writing or this thinking, but all the isolating that I do. Of my writing, some think it is OK, but I know better. None of it here is finished. I have not coopered the stays of it as well as I would like; the words are crafted pridefully, come together sloppily, and fall silent on the ground. Frenzied, I polish and present the day, with no time before the next begins; it is a journal.
Of my thinking, he is a child who could have been; he is a bottle-rocket with plans to reach the Pleiades. He plays in times somewhere behind methe Eighties and the Seventies, he has even gone a bit into the Sixties, lately. He's afraid to meet the forefront of the day, afraid the cresting wave of Now will drown him; or dissolve him like it does the land, and leave an inconclusive driveway at sea-cliff's edge as evidenceof a home, and livesof a place that is no more.
So. This is all I do.
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walk on the ocean :
step on the stones
:
flesh becomes water
:
wood becomes bone
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