Updated: Sep 2, 2021
Heat waves tremble in the mist. Rain pummels the ground with an angry lash, never forgiving the drought of spirit that ails us all. When I write of the sea, doused in brine, only anemones stick to my ribs, only starfish cling to basalt boulders, lapping the foamy waves. I walk the hardened beach like nature’s flaneur : outside looking in. The flotsam of an ancient shipwreck washes at my feet, nails project from broken timber, rust away the patina of time. Let us not pitch the past into the wind: Tropical breezes waft into sedge, ruffle palm trees, rattle dark cages. Sunsets devour the firmament, orange flames shooting across the pale blue sky. Colors claw their way out of anorexic clouds, hovering over whitecaps that crest in fields of gold. If only tourists had not rushed in. “Hell is other people,” Sartre proclaimed. I ogle obese outsiders as they pack the piers with layered flesh, sizzling in the ruthless sun, le roi of rays of torture, potentate of melanoma. Burns smolder for a lifetime.