I’m at the beach this weekend.
Southerners have many fine qualities, I’m finding. The men are incorrigible flirts, the women have roll-on-the-floor wicked senses of humor, they can all cook like pros, they’re all so very, very, well, colorful.
But one quality I simply adore about Southerners is that so many of them seem to have beach houses, and consequently so many parties mean “at the beach.” This is not so much the case in California, where we have no dearth of world-class parties, but no mere mortal can afford beach property.
Going to the beach for the day is lovely, but waking up with the ocean outside your door is profound.
All these long walks on the sand and all these hours of simply staring at the sun changing on the water is being clarifying, as always. Like having my mind vacuum-cleaned. I have to say I probably wouldn’t feel the need to write at all if I lived right on the sea like this. I’d be teaching yoga and meditating my way off this Wheel of Karma (which at my current rate, if desire is what keeps us cycling through lives, will not happen for another seven millennia).
I don’t know how long it would take the ocean to wash the compulsion to write out of me – probably would have to measure it in years. But just over the last few days I’ve achieved some kind of balance – long stretches of mindlessness and also some serious work done on my story for THE DARKER MASK - I had several scenes to write before it was actually complete, and this weekend I wrote all of but one of them (and totally freaked myself out with the solution in the process). Maybe there’s something to this short story thing afer all.
And maybe I would be a better person if I lived at the beach. I would be different, that’s for sure.