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A cross-section of time where my cells mix with the sea cells and the rain shells on the sea shore.

February 13, 2009

And out of nowhere, the rain came back. I am beginning to like this theme.

This time the clouds are very dark, and very heavy, and nothing is moving underneath them at all. They are the type of clouds that gather lightning deep in their bellies, and burp it out like they just had too much Indian food or something. And then over there (at the other side of the sky) there is a hole in the clouds, and golden sunshine is pouring through, shining onto a small part of Los Angeles, lighting up broken bottles and broken dreams alike.

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I am back on the beach. How can I not be. It’s high tide, and most of the rocks are covered. The sea is pounding against the shore with a ferocity that I haven’t seen in a while.

When I was up in Big Sur my roommate Andrea and I were talking about the ocean– she lives on the East coast and was saying that the Atlantic is much warmer than the Pacific, even though the weather is much worse where she is. I guess (she told me this) the Pacific ridge drops off very fast and very deep, quite close to the shore, so all of that water is coming from miles down where there’s no light at all. In the Atlantic, the ridge is shallow for a few miles, then it drops off slowly into deep ocean, so all of the water on the beach has been warmed by the sun. (Then, there’s the gulf stream that comes up from South America and warms the water off the coast of Britain (which is why it’s so lovely (ahem) and mild there year round, instead of frozen over like Nova Scotia).) But you can’t see any of these differences from standing on the beach.

I wonder about whether the spirit of a thing or a place is related to it’s geological structure. If the Spirit of the Pacific ocean (well, the little bit of it that I sit and talk to all the time) is the way it is because it is deep and wild and unwarmed by the sun. Or maybe the geology is deep and wild because of the Spirit that existed beforehand. Maybe Spirit is continuously carving it’s own image out of the planet, manifesting itself in the billions of little ways that it does, us included. I often think it quite funny that we think of things in isolated moments in time, like taking a cross-section of what it actually is and saying “this is it”. We do it with everything and everyone. Which is just silly, because without these cross sections we’re more like long worms of moving evolving stuff. But I guess it’s harder to hold on to something if it’s constantly moving and changing.

The wet sand feels warm when I bury my toes in it. I run up and down the shore for a while, pretending to be one of the birds that chase the tide. And then, exhausted, I wade out a bit and just stand and watch. I don’t know why I like to stand and watch the sea when I’m in the sea. Somehow I feel like when I’m actually touching it then I can feel what’s going on in there. Even more than that though, when I’m in the sea I feel like I am a part of it, and it’s a part of me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to cut myself open instead of blood, salt water would come pouring out of my veins and flood the earth and then I’d become a piece of coral for the fishes to feed on and in a few years I’d end up being distributed evenly throughout all of the oceans in the world. I don’t want this to happen. Not yet anyway. But it’s nice to think about.

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