The pace of life has quickened. Rather than moments, it is days and weeks. I look out to the island ahead of me and realize I haven’t just sat and thought. My words are becoming sparse. Writing about days and weeks is harder than writing about instances. The island is clear. You can see the ridges and valleys as though it has a topography map laying on top of it. A thin layer of yellow smog sits at the base of the island. Evidence of our existence after we are forced to leave. We won’t go until the very last minute. We love this place, despite our actions against it.
The water has lighter patches, presumably where the sun hits, however the whole phenomenon behind the ocean and the sky has always confused me. Which is reflecting which? The lighter patches, in my mind at this moment, are whirlpools leading to different worlds. Fear paralyzes those trapped on their way down. All they can think about is all that they are about to lose. But really, it is those they fear losing most, who will have lost something. They will be in a new world, unable to feel sadness.
Pigeons scatter and crows begin to screech as a bird of pray interrupts homeostasis.
The pelicans have become a rare sight. I wonder if their prehistoric form has finally caught up with them. They must evolve further. Elegant and wise I miss their company. The peacocks roaming the neighborhood with their narcissistic ways and their inability to fly have invaded. Beautiful and ignorant they become a nuisance.
A woman came into the coffee shop some time ago. Young and beautiful and thin. Her husband and brother in law and many kids were swarming the tables. She barely went through the expected hellos, before she pulled her baby away from her husband’s arms. It was not aggressive. It was passionate. Her child was the love of her life. This was obvious as she smothered her with kisses. Not paying attention to anything but the perfection of what she created. The bald child adored this moment. When her mother’s lips were the only form of validation she needed. Her smile pure, completely content in that moment.
The image was blurry. Black and white with different scales of gray in between. It reminded me of a pearl, protected within the hard shell of a clam. But this shell was soft and fleshy. This shell was flawed, searching for highs that no longer occurred naturally. The mother was ready to allow this pearl to save her. I watched it move as though substantiating that it was ready to fight with her. I felt honored to share this moment with the expectant woman.
“I’m jealous of what a woman’s body can do.”
A man I loved once, said this to me. Now I understood those words. They were full of intrigue and disbelief. The dancing pearl was being nurtured and protected by her flesh, as well as protecting its protector. It was a mutual symbiotic relationship.
These jumbled moments. They slow down the days and the weeks to a time more manageable. More coherent.