(Note: original copy mislaid elsewhere.)
It was a day above and beyond to linger upon the sidewalks half-way sighing at the sky, wander down the Plinko streets to where long grasses swayed near the seashore, boarding this useless and picturesque town. There was a cool way to the light and of breathing that suggested spring instead of troubled fall (the days we have been having—it’s been enough—like corpses slowly rotting, blotting out the sun and getting down on all of us). There were a group of four people—at first I thought they were men—but actually at least half of them were women. Most of them were carrying black diving suits with masks, and tanks and flippers and they too were going to the shore.
We tarried on together and though my interest was idle, theirs was a freakish calm of anticipation. Only when we looked past the dunes did I too get infected with their thoughts: below me the sand, the water rinsing out and churning and then in the distance like I’ve never seen before these ancient, volcanic islands, this morning so clear as I’ve never seen, and now I knew truly the effect upon these people. This was not one rare day in Fall but one rare day in a decade. But while comparing decades one might as well be prepared to say that it was a rare decade among decades, and so on. A day like this might never come again. Or if it did, one might sleep through it next time.
We got on a boat and I got to know a little bit about my companions, though as I did I grew less and less at ease at our tight group and wished to be alone. One lady with stringy red hair embarrassed me when I tried to strike up a conversation by blurting out she hadn’t spoken English in twenty-three years. Perhaps she had forgotten most of our important syntax, pronunciation, and usage during that time because her English was horrible, enough so that it justified us not attempting to speak again. Another lady I saw was captured in spirit. I questioned her as to what it was. When she replied—satisfactory to anyone else—I said, “Why is that?” When she reweighed her thoughts she responded with another adequate suggestion but I persisted, “and why is that?” “Why it’s God,” she cried, finally. I said, almost triumphantly, almost swelling at the climax, “and what is that?” She said, annoyed, “It’s just a feeling, okay?” And that was all and we all wished to be parted from each other.
That was not the worst part. Upon one of the splendid islands, I searched for entry onto a secret beach. On this side there was a fence, and so I retraced my steps back up a long hill to where a road was. The road was gated, so I retraced my steps down the hill again to where a house was and where other people were lingering. Someone said, angrily, “There’s no way to get to the beaches.” It looked to be a tavern of sorts and a lady was at the door, black hair and quiet to the reproaches directed at her and pretty in this specific way. We knew that the only way to the beach was through this woman’s house and yard and to be blocked by a wire fence was just unacceptable. “It’s private property,” she said. But no one really owned the islands did they?—and who was she to put down markers upon such a perfect day? “It’s not fair,” someone cried, “it’s just not fair!” The crowd became more and more angry at the injustice. I thought they might do something violent, and, in fact, I started to run away. I stopped when I realized what I could do. “What is wrong here,” I cried, mightily, “is not to be solved like this, here by you—but later in a court of law where it might be properly judged. What are you going to do—kill the lady because you couldn’t have a swim?” I thought I was clever and perhaps I was. I ushered some people away and I thought I saw the lady smiling at me, warmly, or was it with self-satisfaction?
She had slid free, and another set of sea washed-up warn-out city dwellers had dissipated and wandered away. Such verdicts are never gained, for these islands melt into the fog, lost for unendurable ages, this woman, her smile and all.
It was a day above and beyond to linger upon the sidewalks half-way sighing at the sky, wander down the Plinko streets to where long grasses swayed near the seashore, boarding this useless and picturesque town. There was a cool way to the light and of breathing that suggested spring instead of troubled fall (the days we have been having—it’s been enough—like corpses slowly rotting, blotting out the sun and getting down on all of us). There were a group of four people—at first I thought they were men—but actually at least half of them were women. Most of them were carrying black diving suits with masks, and tanks and flippers and they too were going to the shore.
We tarried on together and though my interest was idle, theirs was a freakish calm of anticipation. Only when we looked past the dunes did I too get infected with their thoughts: below me the sand, the water rinsing out and churning and then in the distance like I’ve never seen before these ancient, volcanic islands, this morning so clear as I’ve never seen, and now I knew truly the effect upon these people. This was not one rare day in Fall but one rare day in a decade. But while comparing decades one might as well be prepared to say that it was a rare decade among decades, and so on. A day like this might never come again. Or if it did, one might sleep through it next time.
We got on a boat and I got to know a little bit about my companions, though as I did I grew less and less at ease at our tight group and wished to be alone. One lady with stringy red hair embarrassed me when I tried to strike up a conversation by blurting out she hadn’t spoken English in twenty-three years. Perhaps she had forgotten most of our important syntax, pronunciation, and usage during that time because her English was horrible, enough so that it justified us not attempting to speak again. Another lady I saw was captured in spirit. I questioned her as to what it was. When she replied—satisfactory to anyone else—I said, “Why is that?” When she reweighed her thoughts she responded with another adequate suggestion but I persisted, “and why is that?” “Why it’s God,” she cried, finally. I said, almost triumphantly, almost swelling at the climax, “and what is that?” She said, annoyed, “It’s just a feeling, okay?” And that was all and we all wished to be parted from each other.
That was not the worst part. Upon one of the splendid islands, I searched for entry onto a secret beach. On this side there was a fence, and so I retraced my steps back up a long hill to where a road was. The road was gated, so I retraced my steps down the hill again to where a house was and where other people were lingering. Someone said, angrily, “There’s no way to get to the beaches.” It looked to be a tavern of sorts and a lady was at the door, black hair and quiet to the reproaches directed at her and pretty in this specific way. We knew that the only way to the beach was through this woman’s house and yard and to be blocked by a wire fence was just unacceptable. “It’s private property,” she said. But no one really owned the islands did they?—and who was she to put down markers upon such a perfect day? “It’s not fair,” someone cried, “it’s just not fair!” The crowd became more and more angry at the injustice. I thought they might do something violent, and, in fact, I started to run away. I stopped when I realized what I could do. “What is wrong here,” I cried, mightily, “is not to be solved like this, here by you—but later in a court of law where it might be properly judged. What are you going to do—kill the lady because you couldn’t have a swim?” I thought I was clever and perhaps I was. I ushered some people away and I thought I saw the lady smiling at me, warmly, or was it with self-satisfaction?
She had slid free, and another set of sea washed-up warn-out city dwellers had dissipated and wandered away. Such verdicts are never gained, for these islands melt into the fog, lost for unendurable ages, this woman, her smile and all.
