H.P. Lovecraft
Late of a July afternoon.
Lolling on a wooden bench, hand hewn, sun bleached and weather beaten. Near the edge of a coastside bluff
overlooking an azure Pacific Ocean scattered with diamonds of shimmering
sunlight.
This is not a calm sea; the
waters below churn and roil; foamy; angry waves smack into jutting rocks. In the mild eddies long ribbons of brown and
emerald seaweed undulate just below the water’s surface, dancing, swirling,
bobbing in shifting waters.
An incessant, muted roar, constant for millennia,
unchanged since before the natives stood on these same cliffs; eternal for
centuries to come. Chirping birds, the
cries of gulls.
On a nearby bench two young women talk in an Eastern European tongue – their tones sing song.
On a nearby bench two young women talk in an Eastern European tongue – their tones sing song.
Gulls hover at eye level above the water and then dive to
the sandy beach below. Just inland hawks
drift effortlessly through the currents of the breeze, prowling for prey,
suddenly swooping from the heights and out of sight behind the trees. Now a scarlet headed vulture is suspended
above, seemingly so close I can reach out to touch the talons.
Bees hum amongst the pink and white
wildflowers at cliff’s edge.
A stiff breeze off the ocean. I could catch a chill where it not for a
thick sweatshirt soaking in the sun’s warmth.
Narcotic drowsiness; dozing. My eyes close, the sounds all
meld; the girls' lilting voices blend with the concert of crashing waves and
boiling seas; melodic; symphonic. Semi-slumber; the breeze, the ocean, the girls sound distant yet they could an arm's length away; crystalline, clean.
This
is a tonic. This venerable wooden bench is a therapist’s couch without the old shrink’s
intrusion. A cure from the workplace and
the world.
No cell reception, no connectivity. No traffic, no news, please and thank you; please no news. No wars, no shootings or killings or other inhumanities that man wreaks upon his fellow man. No Lohans or Kardashians; no Giants’ baseball, spoiled young rich men or Olympic trials with over dramatic tribulations; no Doctors Phil or Oz; no political squabbles; no ranting over some ideological cause. Rachel is MAD-dow as are Rush, Maher and the other divisive drones, blathering bombastic baloney over angered airwaves - they just don't do it here.
No cell reception, no connectivity. No traffic, no news, please and thank you; please no news. No wars, no shootings or killings or other inhumanities that man wreaks upon his fellow man. No Lohans or Kardashians; no Giants’ baseball, spoiled young rich men or Olympic trials with over dramatic tribulations; no Doctors Phil or Oz; no political squabbles; no ranting over some ideological cause. Rachel is MAD-dow as are Rush, Maher and the other divisive drones, blathering bombastic baloney over angered airwaves - they just don't do it here.
It's a couple hours I suppose - of repose. It's a time when time has no relevance. Until of course the sun lowers a sparkling shaft of light on the water’s surface. Then time begins to insist that I should get up and go. Hesitation, fluctuation. Stay in the opiate soothing sun or rise and let the sedative release. There is of course no choice. I have a loved one waiting for me at the room. Just as I have loved ones and the responsibilities that wait for me at home.
Still there is that sweet seduction - others have done it- why not me- to just chuck it all and stay in a peaceful seaside village.
I'm in! Where exactly were you?
ReplyDeleteScott; Mendocino. Have not been here in 31 years. The last time I was here was for a short honeymoon.
ReplyDeleteNice work on an imagery and allusion piece. It is a very tough tool to use without sounding trite or treacle. Some thoughts. When, for example, you interject a too-routine of a thought as "I could catch a chill..." you break the magic you are trying to create. A fugue-state piece needs to be consistent and uninterrupted with too mundane a reference. Try re-reading the paragraph minus that sentence. See how it is a more cohesive emotion. Or take, "On a nearby bench two young women talk in an Eastern European tongue – their tones sing song." It might be more fluid and evocative as "On a nearby ancient bench, two young women gossip in a veiled Slavic tongue. Their tones are rushed and sing-song, the preciousness of every treasured passion surging back and forth as do only the tides of eternal youthful optimism."
ReplyDeleteOh, by the way, did I mention I'm an opinionated SOB? Hope you don't mind the critic. Writing is a craft which must be practiced and honed to be mastered.
Mendocino is ruggedly beautiful but, at the end of the day, too darn cold! Nice to visit, but in tiny doses. Basques and Scots might love it, but I'd be depressed all the time.