I thought I saw Jeff Buckley in the river that night. I waded out in the wake and was but a few strokes from catching up with the ghost.
He was out there—of this much I am certain—and in pursuit I looked back to see the girls walk down to the water, peering out into the darkness, looking for us. It was a bastard current brought me back to the beach, but that which has returned is but half of he who ventured out; I was cleaved by a current in opposition. I emerged from the dark water, newly amphibious, feeling my feet planted firmly on solid ground, while part of me remains aqueous and swims now with my dream brother.
Winter in New York. In the depths of winter, an invincible summer...what Camus said. One more crack at it.
Snow fell last night, and down the street the dilapidated docks on the East River have the white carpet rolled out, from promenade to the icy pewter of the water.
A woman is walking down the promenade with a young child as a light rain begins to fall. The child says, what happens if it just keeps raining and the water gets higher and higher?
The seafaring societies of Austronesian peoples in the Indo-Pacific--the Moken, Sama Bajau, etc--have exhibited genetic adaptations conducive to their pelagic livelihood.
One afternoon in New Orleans, while tossing the frisbee in the empty lot on Brainard during a torrential downpour, Keith says only half wry that we're drowning in the jungle.
I believe metamorphosis is a matter of entelechy; it's a wayward hustle that's my fodder here. But I still look to the night sky and say a prayer to Polaris. One fine morning--
So I beat on. It's a practical matter when you get down to it. Bound or blogged, from inside the amber, to write and to live, to walk that line...
I'd given a formal education the old college try and two weeks later found myself driving north on US 1 with new clarity, back into the fog. On a pier in Sausalito, I met a degenerate bluesman. He'd once been something of a sensation, but it all got to be too much for him and he'd just wandered off. He was playing that night at a little bar on the water, just a few hundred feet away, and told me to come have a beer and sit in with him. So I went over there and we played a few tunes together. When we'd finished, he packed up his guitar, extracted a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and put it between his lips. He grabbed a matchbook from a crystal bowl on the bar and slipped out the back door. An ebullient man in a white three-piece suit is suddenly in front of me, effusive with praise. The man spoke of a path to stardom, sold me on it right there; I took his card and promised to call the next day, and then stepped outside to catch up with my new friend. But there was only the fog, thick off the water, and the moon shone bright and illuminated the pier. It jettied straight, intersecting with the harbor halfway out, continuing on into the bay.