We went to the beach. Daytona Beach, which is very loud and very full of interesting to look and wonder at people. Lot of Donald Trump fans. I think when he establishes himself as King of America, he should build his first castle right on the shores of Daytona. The people who live here seem like they’d happily be his serfs.
That’s very mean of me, I’m sorry. At the pool last night I did witness a very tattooed, ZZ Top bearded man in a t-shirt depicting Donald ripping open his shirt to reveal a Superman costume chain smoke by his baby and tell a stranger’s kid to knock it off when he saw the kid was using a pool noodle to try to clobber screaming little 6 year old girls in cheetah print string bikinis. That was sweet.
I slept so amazing here, I have to say. I had crazy dreams because that’s just how my weird brain is. Some dreams I’ll wake up from and cross my fingers so hard they come true, sometimes they have. Others I wake up from and, if I run into anyone from that dream, don’t even speak to me because you said/did this thing and I’m so mad at you right now I can’t even. It’s a loud place, my brain, but full of rainbows and dark, mysterious jungles. Adventures.
Which is why I think the ocean is magic, even though its salt and sun will destroy practically everything humans value, including their skin. There is nothing quite like walking on a beach at sunrise or sunset, alone, pondering everything. Like love, doesn’t fix a thing or save anyone. But, for about an hour or two, whatever sadnesses or sorries or angers or hurts you have take on a less upsetting perspective. There is a simple joy in greeting the sun coming up and then saying goodbye to it as it goes down, knowing the sun isn’t going anywhere–we are.
My mom told me that, the last year or so of his life, this is what my dad did a lot: he’d get up incredibly early every day, just to watch the sun rise. There is something magically connective about it, this sun that rises and sets on all of us, that has risen and set on every living thing that has ever existed on our planet. Countless eyes have watched it, even more hearts have beat under it.
I’m having a hard time letting go of anger. I don’t pay attention to some things, I read too much into other things. I can rub, and get rubbed, the wrong way so easily these days. A friend told me yesterday: “Try to remember we don’t journey with those we know and love long enough to really understand how to love them, so being gracious and grateful while we do is not only tricky but paramount to having a peaceful heart.”
It makes me cry every time I go back and re-read it. It’s one of my life’s hardest lessons.
I’m reading Amanda Palmer’s book The Art of Asking. It’s making me cry a lot too. Where do you draw the line at loving someone as is, and protecting your heart from their need to use it? Maybe I’m not quite there then, being able to love and accept someone as is, if I feel the need to protect my heart.
But then there are wolves out there, people who will read books like Amanda’s and blog entries like this and see opportunities, openings. I don’t know how to tell the wolves from the sheep. Maybe if I keep reading, Amanda will teach me how she does it.
And now, back to reality. Monday I start my new job. I’m not writing under an alias, I’ve set up a new blog for that but don’t feel like writing in it. If I have something to say, I’ll just come here to do it I guess.
I’m basically coming to accept that I’m a walking dichotomy: full of love but indignation, judge-y but hate feeling judged, demand freedom but cling to others, open-minded except when it doesn’t work for me. A systematic work in progress. I’ve yet to meet a man who wants to stick around and let me figure me out while patiently waiting for me to come back to him…or steadfastly coming back to me after I flee. Usually they just try to box me up and define me, and argue with me when I say they’re wrong. Control has always been a repeating theme in my relationships with other people.
At any rate, I’m browner than I’ve ever been and my hair still has salt in it and I’ve seen 4 sunrises and two sunsets and I have a bag of seashells and two poems and one letter to the Universe positing to It that It simply must help find me a small beach cottage one day. Now I’m whizzing past mangroves, listening to Pat Boone sing You Light Up My Life, hoping we get to 1970s Cher soon. I’m glad I get to be in the world, figuring out this complicated life that isn’t even as remotely complicated as, say, a Syrian refugee child’s life, but is damagingly baggage-inducing nonetheless. It’s all terrible when it hurts and is confusing, but then I get to watch a heron fly low over some waves as the sun comes back up and I know I’ll just keep figuring it out.
And we all bounce around in waves, gentle and fierce, under the same sun.