Writings on the Ocean

The ocean was flat. That's a damned common word to choose after so many nights of observation, but really it was the best word for it. There were no tsunami waves tonight, running at shore in their rank and file, steadily pounding a rhythm against the concrete. On microcosm you could see the slop and plop water knocking itself about, but he hadn't looked at that; only out over the width of the bay and the stretch between summertime lights. He thought about that day early last spring when the ocean laid still. There were no waves on that afternoon, and no surf - only a slight heaving of the water, like the shallow and dispersed breathing of a dying man, it's white foam frothed at the edges, sputtering out.

The moon tonight shown steady casting its reflection off the water in a perfect line to the bottom of his feet. "Hm." It suddenly occurred to him that it could never be any other way. Why hadn't he thought about that before? You always see the sun coming right at you and that had never seemed strange. "I might have to draw a picture with the sunset reflecting off to the side," he thought. He bet after it was finished, you could tell it looked funny, but you wouldn't be able to say why.

The moon looked lumpy tonight - it wasn't quite full. Or was that just the clouds? A shadow passed moving the opposite way of the traffic, but tonight he didn't jump. The scene was molding him, making him a part of its familiarity.



Honesty. What does that look like? Is it possible to be recorded, even by the best intentions? Does the tip of the pen dull its edges, scratch its surface? Is there much forgotten by the flawed institution of writing? Even if I made up my mind to be honest with you, could I produce it?