August 21st - Writing Exercise #3

Memories of Santa Monica in the late night and early morning, sometime back then:

We saw bums lay out rags and tattered jackets so they could hug the shore and listen to the sound of the water – the steady rhythm of the ocean waves that roared coming in and then purred when receding. There was a certain feeling of warmth at seeing them sleep in the sand for they sunk into it so that the grains retreated and then conformed to their bodies. Against the unchangeable and indifferent form of concrete upon where I would usually see them sleeping within the city, they would shiver and squirm. Along the shore that night, they were perfectly still. You brought a half bottle of wine for my pleasure and I was faithful taking periodic gulps from it while looking at the pier that struck out into the water. The ferris wheel was on top of it, as it always would be, blanketing the shore with an alien glow giving it the ethereal quality of a dream. It filled me with an unexplainable nostalgia that made me contemplative. Time passed with silence between us, but I did not feel anxious; I looked at you; you looked peaceful staring out; I followed your eyes looking for the divide of the horizon; it was not there. The sky blurred into the water, an infinite congruous mass. When I stared long enough at a singular point of that expansive darkness, I felt a divine sensation of weightlessness and I swear I would have floated up into it if my eyes did not adjust their focus. Around us were other visitors who would enter and exit the scene only as silhouettes. Their words were undecipherable. The voices seemed to come in from another plane only to exist in our world for a fleeting moment and then volley back into theirs. Only the sound of the ocean remained constant. And as I listened to the waves, my thoughts took on the ambiguous shape of my existence. I concentrated hard on the shape. The lights of the ferris wheel started to dim. The lapping of the water eased away. Santa Monica melted into the void. Then as I became immersed into nothingness, the shape transformed; then, there was clarity. I saw my mother's gentle face lit up by the aura of the living room television. I saw the crows feet at the corner of my father's eyes. A parking lot that descended into a creek. Two hamsters in a glass cage on display at a garage sale. His angel face and a tuft of golden hair. A maze of sidewalks bending around towering brick apartment buildings. Sewer tunnel entrances tagged with ominous graffiti: “Welcome to Hell”. My mother aging, blemishes starting to spot her face like bruised fruit. Lines drawing themselves at the corner of my father's eyes. A U-haul, then whispering spirits beneath a dark red stucco rooftop. Weed persistent growing beneath the persistent lawn mower beneath the dome of apple tree branches. Wind chill burning up faces till they turn pink like frozen raw meat. Scribbled love notes put inside desk compartments with hopes of returned scribbled love notes. Falling leaves, then snow, then melting snow, then summer sticking to the skin with dew drops. Sticky love notes of hand jobs and blow jobs. Fucking. Scarfing down porno three-ways with hot fries and cafeteria meatball sandwiches. Another U-haul. Another unfamiliar place. Unfamiliar saliva and tongues and hands and sweat. Hurry up and roll that spliff, I'm wanting to ride. Fades, trips, wastes, shocks, buzzes, fiends, hits and can't feel good no more... Bruised fruit... Crows feet... Come down... Melting ice cream cones. Pink strawberry liquid streaming down tiny fingers dropping onto stove top asphalt. Strange pink strawberry blobs. An ambiguous shape... The pale lights of the pier ferris wheel came back in with streaks. I returned to Santa Monica at the bottom of the bottle and with a sadness settling in my body as lukewarm as the wine. A cigarette felt good between my lips and I found myself having another, then another, and more until my pack was fully dispensed. My legs felt stiff so I took a walk close beside the water, kicking sand, dipping my toes in – the water's chill was refreshing. I came back to you and you were wrapped in a blanket with your eyes closed. Your chest was rising and falling gently as you breathed. Another rhythm humming along with the waves. I felt the time ticking away with the completion of each of your breaths. And each present moment came in with a roar and receded with a purr, back into that vast black space. And there would be a certain measure of breaths, of waves, before we would no longer be figures on the shore. The sun would come and quake the bums from their stillness. Grains of sand would collapse into the imprints of their bodies disappeared. The ferris wheel would stand in the sun casting only a shadow. But time would go on, a relentless force, and cycles would not be hindered. The night would come on again blending the sea and the sky together. Figures would again stalk the beach and sink into it. And the glow of the ferris wheel would again embrace the darkness of their dreams.