We’re sitting on the beach watching a storm come in. Before me is a dark cloud that looks like a disheveled shark, it’s fin slowly disintegrating. P would say it’s a message. I don’t like the implication at first but I continue to think about it. Maybe I should accept the concept since I’m surely not the shark. If all the “sharks” are disintegrating, so be it. The world will be a better place, won’t it?
What’s ominous, is the storm coming in over the ocean, lightning with no thunder and thunder with no lightning, their timing totally off. The cloud dumps it’s load of rain out at sea and the ocean protests with undertow.
But I like storms, and dislike the beach in the bright sun–sweat and lotion attracting sand and the sticky roughness of it, the itchiness, the threat of sunburn.
And you can’t read.
So sitting here watching the storm come in suits me. I like the salt water, the healing sting of it.
Tomorrow we’ll be back in the city where the grit that sticks to you carries sinister microbes. Where there are are no shark clouds or time for daydreaming. Where there are no illusions or, the illusions that prevail are so clogged with grit, that they’re no longer illusions but ways of life.
In the world beyond the beach, planes fall out of the sky, people sicken and die, fortunes are made and lost. There is war.
The black cloud is directly overhead though it hasn’t spit rain yet. The lightning is still far out to sea and there’s only an occasional rumble of thunder to remind us…
We’re helpless. We can take shelter but we can’t avoid the storm.