February 9, 2014: "Cock and endless balls"

Makena Sunday.
Little beach massive naked hippie fire dance drum circle extravaganza. 
The last time I was here was over a year ago
On a Sunday.
January 6th to be precise.
I left in an ambulance.
Thus as I climbed over the lava rock cliff I was graciously presented with latent PTSD and general social anxiety.

The ocean is always my solace, so I sought refuge there immediately. I walked in and as I looked back at the scene: sun blazed landscapes, bodies, sounds; drums, hoots, flutes, guitars, screams, and as Allen Ginsberg puts it in Howl, 'cock and endless balls', I was reflecting that my home is such an interesting confluence of expression. This is my home after all. Not Ibiza or Burning Man. This is my home. Though difficult for some to grasp:

Man: "Hey, where you from?"
Me: (reluctant to engage) "I'm from here."
Man: "You're from here?"
Me: (I just fucking said that) "I'm from here."
Man: "Where were you born?"
Me: (in disbelief) "I'm from here."
Man: "You were born here?"
Me: (this can't be happening) "I'm from here."
Man: "So you're from here?"
Me: (fuck this. I'm out.)

An old man who, judging by his leathered ass cheeks, has surely has been here since ground zero of the back-to-the-land-feigned-free-love movement of the 1970's paddles out on a surfboard next to me and all I can think is two things: 1) Who paddles out into a shallow, crowded shore break with a tool of potential destruction? An irresponsible habitually self absorbed man, that's who, and 2) Pubic hair on surfboard wax sounds miserable.

Clearly just being in the ocean wasn't solace enough.

I dive under and it  >>  a l l   c h a n g e s  <<   I can hear the whales singing. So clearly. And the sand shifting. No more humans. No more leathered cock and balls. No more stupid fucking questions. Just sand and sea and the sparkliest of sparkling light filtered through crystalline waves. And more whale songs. Serenity. Para una serena. My lungs remind me that they exist and that furthermore, I owe them oxygen. As I rise up, I have that deeply familiar and unbearably beautiful sensation as the surface of the ocean is rushing towards ones face from the bottom up. Surface = noise and humans and cock and balls. Endlessly.

Uncomfortable juxtaposition defines so much of my life.

One day I'll have gills.
So I won't have to come back to this surface.

 

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