Had to get out, get away from it all yesterday. The ocean was calling me, so despite the bad weather of recent weeks, I drove out to the coast. It was scary, as there was still ice and snow on the roads heading out, and I have no chains or studded tires, and could probably use a new set of regular tires on my car (plus an oil change and brake work). But I didn't care. I had to get away, and I had to get to the beach, and that was all there was to it.
Threw spare gear in the car (shoes, socks, water, granola bars) and searched for appropo music. Settled on Elvis Costellos' 'Blood and Chocolate' (the absolute best collection about sex and love I've ever heard), Zap Mama's "A-maze-zon" (soothing) and the Pristeens "Scandal, Controversy and Romance". Had forgotten two important things: The Pristeens ROCK, and the reason I'd bought this car in the first place, namely the incredible speaker system that you can crank up to 11.
Okay, forget what I ever said about Elvis Costello being god. THE PRISTEENS ARE GOD, or rather Goddesses. SC&R was produced by Joey Ramone, and you can hear it. I'd picked up on them after hearing "What's She Got?" in Athens, GA while licking my wounds over my marriage going kablooey (chorus, in a snarky tone is "What's she got/that I don't got on me?") and the whole cd runs back and forth between loving boys and wanting to punch their lights out for being dickheads, plus warning other girls that these guys are dickheads. It took me forever to track down SC&R, mainly because I'm a luddite and want the thrill of finding something in a store bin instead of snagging it online. But if you need it loud and raucous, this is the group for you.
So on to the beach. The road was treacherous, but with the music as loud as it was, I couldn't really hear when the car wasn't making contact with all four tires. Got there after noon, the sun already slanting oddly in the sky, but the skies were blue at the beach and a warmish wind was blowing in off the breakers. Juggled my sand chair, water bottle, journal, purse, keys, sunglasses down to the edge. Looked like the tide was going out--the beach seemed huge, much more vast than the last time I was there (August?) Fewer people afoot, which was nice. Made the acquaintance of a lovely golden retriever named Sallie, who kept coming over to nose my hand, much to the chagrin of her owner. Watched the tide pull further and further back. Stashed my gear in my chair and walked to the water's edge. A surfer in wetsuit with short board was walking to the waves at the same time, and kept on walking in to the surf. The playa of the beach seemed calm, but the water itself seemed high and angry out where the surfer was headed. I was standing there, thinking of what a release, how exhilarating it must bee to step firmly and confidently into the waves and keep going, when I saw a wave working its way towards me. Started walking back to the last ripple of sea foam, thinking to outrun it. It picked up speed; so did I. Then a sneaker wave came in from my right, in the sun, and caught my shoes. Ah well, the feet are wet, might as well not fight it any more I thought, and slowed back to a casual stroll. But the water kept coming, quite cold and forcefully now. I was afraid of losing my shoes, so I stopped dead and looked down. The water was full of sand, and I could feel it filling my Sketchers, sifting in between toes, up under the arches, back out the open heel. And the water kept rising, cold cold cold until it hit the back of my knees.
Stood there, mouth agape in astonishment, smiling and laughing out loud. It felt so good and was so bloody cold and I was there all alone and for five minutes did not think about any other thing than how it felt to be there, knee deep in surf. I'll leave the introspection stuff for later (was the ocean embracing me, telling me to come on? Or was it gently pushing me back to shore, to finish the job I'm here for?) Sun, warm, cold, sand, sea salt, sea gulls...who the fuck cares about anything else?
But I did go out there with the purpose of closing the book of TOW. Sat and wrote until my fingers got numb, then got up and searched for shells (should really remember to bring my sea shell pail with me next time). Found several intact sand dollars, plus some interesting rocks and smaller shells. Would walk down to the water's edge until the wave would build and threaten to soak me again, sending me scampering back to my chair just at the high water mark. Teenagers on low-rider recumbent bikes went racing by. Some times, the ocean would seem so quiet, then pick up steam and noise and come crashing in all around. All the bliss was occasionally ruined by the tourist helicopter tours circling high above, but not so much as to require a bazooka to teach them a lesson.
So I sat. And I wrote. And I wrote. And I wrote some more, and searched for shells, and wrote, and said hi to the dogs that came over to sniff and just stared into space. Dunno if I came to any definite conclusions, other than TOW may have a right to privacy, but that doesn't give him the right to be a dickhead or a meanie. If he shows up again, he gets the downstairs sofa if he gets in at all. Thing is, he's already plotting his next move, because the personals and blogs he set up to snare whoever he's with right now are all dead now (if you're stupid enough to leave that kind of stuff in the history of the computer you're borrowing, then you should expect a certain amount of surveillance). His problems with women go far deeper than I will ever be able to understand, and I have to leave it at that. And let it go.
I don't think I'm well-suited for this relationship thing. I have yet to find a guy who doesn't have some kind of major malfunction when dealing with women, and I just can't bear the strain of it any more. This isn't to imply that I am perfect, a Betty Crocker and Xaviera Hollander all wrapped up in one toned, fit, botoxed-yet-naturally beautiful package. I'm not. I can be needy, clingy, demanding, all at the worst times. My anxiety has a hair trigger. But I come from a large family, and have more fun when I have someone to share it with, and (at times, desperately) want someone to share it all with. There was a comic book I liked, where the subplot was that there were invisible people in the world, and they were invisible as a result of being ignored. You know, homeless types that you cast a blind eye towards, that kind of folk. But I'm beginning to feel like one of the invisible people, someone who can go march in a crowd of 500,000 and yet not talk to a single person the entire path. How the hell did that happen? And what can I do to stop it?
sad