"Ahh, the ocean, that primordial womb, the source of all life, its salty waters conveying a tantalizing taste of the safe warm nurturing amniotic fluids from which we were so cruelly expelled into this cold and heartless world. Is it any wonder we yearn to return to that idyllic environment, though it be forever forbidden from us, so instead we seek the substitute of the sea, we hasten down its sandy slopes and plunge ourselves into its lifegiving waters. So immerse yourself in the sea! You can go home again! What's that? The water's too cold? You'd rather dig in the sand? Very interesting.... do the words 'maternal rejection' mean anything to you?
"Holes holes holes! A beautiful day at the beach and you're hunched over the sand, shoveling away, playing the day laborer, a regular ditch digger you are, industriously digging hole after hole. What drives you to dig while we rest and play? And what of futility, the certainty that your efforts will vanish this evening, for the rising tide levels all, even the deepest of holes. But that's the whole point, isn't it? You are the clever one, aren't you, your digging a pointed, and poignant, allegory for life itself. Or is it guilt you seek to expiate while the rest of us luxuriate? What could your parents have done to you to drive you so today? These are deep waters, I fear, deeper than even your deepest hole.
"And what of your partner over there, the one who wields the sand scooper with such obvious skill. Such a sublime system of tunnels, wending their way hither and thither. Such careful attention to detail! Observe as he slowly pours the water through that tunnel, smoothing the sides while shoring up the walls, his hands constantly on the move, everything in its place, no detail too small to restrain and retain the sand building up behind those dark holes. Truly a tunnel master. And one whose parents took their sweet time with the toilet training, by the looks of it.
"Let's stroll, shall we? Observe the Edenic quality of the beach, the acres of skin on display, humanity having discarded its clothes, and with them a measure of its shame, returning once again to the birth state, as it were, save for small amounts of cloth, modern fig leaves, if you like, concealing those nether regions still protected by our deepest shames and the strictures of the local municipal code. Frolic, be free, cast off your repressions! Oh my god, look at that man, the hirsute one with the Speedo, it's hard to see the suit, what with the pronounced abdominal sag covering most of it. Has he no decency, no respect for his fellow man, no aesthetic sensibility whatsoever? Back to the Garden? I'd rather give my back to this Garden!
"Oh, look there. Nice tower, young man. I see you've chosen the cylindrical shape, slightly tapered, a design decision that permitted you to erect the tallest sand tower on the beach, a truly massive shaft, one that just might compensate for a certain shortcoming of yours that's now obvious to anyone with even the slightest understanding of human nature. Very nice.
"What's that you're reading? The Wings of the Dove? Here, at the beach? Have you gone mad? I yield to none in my respect for the Master, his matchless ability to evoke the psychology of the situation with a carefully observed well-turned phrase, but can one truly absorb such an internal work in such a distracting environment, one brimming with real life case studies so much more deserving of our immediate attention? Put down your book and look over there, those two girls constructing those sand mounds, I'll give you one guess what those represent, and have I shared with you my theory of the thong, and you must not let me forget to fill you in on my preliminary hypothesis regarding tattoos and modern teen culture...."
It's a good thing you're not reading any Jim Thompson whilst strolling the peaceful sands. Blood, Violence, and the Beach clash so unnattractively.
Posted by: DarkoV | August 12, 2005 at 09:29 AM
I "really dig" your "Sandy Soliloquy" through the castles, tunnels, towers, dams, and tides of memory...
I have found poetry works pretty well on a beach.... short attention span stuff, and the cadence of the waves is a nice lulling background for verse....
besides, if after your 3rd margarita served in a hollow pineapple, you happen to lose your place, so what!! also poetry often impresses girls with tattoos...
do fill us in on modern teen culture & tattoos sometime... however preliminary or rough your hypothesis is...
Posted by: andrew | August 12, 2005 at 11:35 AM
May I suggest the book The Beach by Alex Garland if you'd like something ( a little) more appropriate?
Posted by: Damien | August 14, 2005 at 01:27 AM
Your intricately crafted, perceptive, and artful posts are a delight to read. I am hardly alone in appreciating the investment you make in Outer Life. Thanks for writing, and so very well, too.
Posted by: MindSpin | August 14, 2005 at 08:23 AM
I have got drunk on tequila at Atlantic City and got an Outer Life tattoo - what do you think about that???
Posted by: stephenesque | August 15, 2005 at 11:40 AM
Stephenesque,
"Outer Life" is a trademark. We do not recall seeing your skin on our list of licensed logo apparel. Please cease and desist all unauthorized uses of "Outer Life."
Outer Life
Posted by: Outer Life | August 15, 2005 at 12:52 PM
Stephenesque, just stop by that tatooerie next weekend and have them append "boat" to "Life". I believe even Mr. OL will approve of that alteration.
Posted by: DarkoV | August 16, 2005 at 05:29 AM