I’ve had an undying love for the beach for as long as I can remember. Growing up, my mother couldn’t get enough of the sun and the sound of the surf. She still can’t. I don’t know anyone that can lay out in the sun with such dedication and calm as she does. My family are beach people who love to swim, surf, sun bath, play, relax, eat, and talk. We like picking out a beach that is almost completely empty. We like it when the waves are rough. I know that there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of the ocean lapping along the shore, the wind tousling the grassy dunes, an endless horizon where blue meets blue. But I’ve been sun burnt and sand burnt on the soles of my feet, bitten by flies, bled out onto the sharp fraction of a shell, stalked my seagulls, and stung by jellyfish. The beach is where my fear of jellyfish would begin and where it would die out. I learned that surfing tends to be 60 percent paddling, 30 percent waiting, 8 percent falling over, and 2 percent accomplishment of standing on a moving piece of plexi covered foam. I’ve had my fair share of bruised hips and fin collisions. Even after wiping out from my boogie board into rough sand, I’d ignore the sting of salty water on my scrapped skin and seek out my next wave. The ocean has a sense of humor. My brother throws a piece of coral at my head and I lose my diamond earring; the same day my brother finds a wallet with a $100 dollar bill. Me and my cousin flip our kayak as we attempt to catch a wave in. As we tumble, I lose my sunglasses. Two days later, as we stroll along the surf, I find my glasses waiting for me in the sand. At night, the moon watches itself in the reflection of the Atlantic as I watch the moon floating overhead. The surf is pulled in so tightly, the earth holds its breath, and I sprint through the darkness along the flat bed that is revealed. It is serene, quiet, cool, and calm: the beach at night and the early hours of the morning. Ghost crabs race from their holes to the water’s edge. We chase them with our flashlights. I sink into the sand and find myself disappointed when the sand won’t pull me down any further. Just take me down. I want the sand to take me, make me part of the beach. I walk besides the river carved by the returning waves and suddenly I drop nearly a foot into ground. Plummet deeper than I had imagined. I panic and sink again with a second and third step. After the freeing forth step, I can’t help but feel a sort of sadness for the emptiness I have left in the ground. That was my chance.
The beach, to me, is life. It is my life and the many lives I know. It brings us together. It brings me together with the life around me. Following the bubbles, I’ve dug for sand crabs. The orange eggs of the female underbellies always fascinated me. The speed at which they dug was astounding. They were very good at tickling tanning relatives. They fit very well in bellybuttons. I’ve seen my fair share of fish, attempted to catch them but always failing. There have been a few dolphin sightings, ray chases, jellyfish encounters, attacks by sea lice, proximity to baby sharks, mermaids purses (some empty, some full), and crab bites. I’ve been eaten alive by the bugs and stopped dead in my tracks my the magnificence of the giant spiders nestled along the bushy dunes. The ocean has been crystal clear, cerulean blue, and it’s also been something resembling clams mixed in a blender. Interactions on the beach span a great deal, with different people across many years. I’ve gotten lost wandering when I was younger and as I’ve gotten older I intentionally lose myself as I walk. The beach can be a place where the entire family comes together or where I can escape to by myself. I can walk and talk with the waves by my side. People come in and out of my life along the sandy shore, just as the tide does. Its endless. The belly up fish and the baby eating sand. We sit watching the chill waves in silence. I’m tense. I inhale smoldering plants and breathe out night stars. I cough and giggle. I cough and sniffle. I sniffle and sneeze from the sun. The sun keeps burning. Clouds sometimes cover up the skies and pound rain, lightening, thunder, across the beach. The waves respond with great force.
I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore. It’s 2 am. I’m tired. I miss the beach already just thinking about it.
There are nightmares where you can’t scream,
but you want to:
The times when you’re drowning,
when you’re lost and alone,
as the fists smash into your every bone,
silence nibbling corners of your soul.
Suffocating while tensing jaw falling from broken tongue
dancing along pallet, along teeth, along gums.
Choking. Panting. Thrashing.
Cascading gasping to break the bits of the breast bone
dislodged in the sunken lungs.
The waiting. Oh the agonizingly tedious waiting.
There are no screams in our nightmares.
And sometimes, we’re awake.
Wow.
I just met a really awesome person. His name was David, and he is a sophomore. He is a double major: BME and Art History. Yes. No joke. A double major engineer, and the second being art history. So for all those engineers/science majors that have poked fun at me or any other humanities major should really have a talk with this guy because he can see the grass being green on both sides. He is possibly one of the only double major in the BME department or the entire engineering school in general. To get all his requirements, he needs to take 21+ credits each semester. And the art history language requirement? He probably could completely skip it seeing as he speaks Spanish, Italian, French, and English fluently. Yeah. Seriously. David was born in Mexico but grew up internationally, traveling all the time while learning French from school. Then he was living in Italy where he picked up Italian. English must have snuck in there as well.
But if I’ll be damned. He was super down to earth, saying one of the things he dislikes about BME majors is their cut-throat competitiveness (well, at least the ones in medicine). So for him, he finds art history his escape from numbers and the pressure of his peers.
I’m so glad to be able to meet such inspirational and extraordinary people.
I’ve been home for a week. Well, come tomorrow it will be a week.
I feel like it has gone so fast and I’m becoming very anxious about how I’m going to schedule my remaining two weeks before I need to go back to school for three weeks of fencing. Yes. Three weeks consisting only of fencing. No classes. No clubs. No assignments. Just fencing; five days a week, six hours a day.
Anyway, this week has been filled with work. As soon as my mother could put an apron on me, I was in the bakery filling cannolis and carrying trays and doing anything and everything my mom barked at me. The holidays are always very busy for the bakery, as I’d imagine every store is busy. The preparation for the bombardment of customers that will arrive on Christmas Eve and stragglers of Christmas Day is tedious and long. We stand for a majority of the day, only bending our knees to sit for lunch, squat down for something, use the stairs, or take a bathroom break. Constantly being on your feet can take a toll on your feet and legs. My feet are pretty sore and my shins have inconsistently been giving me problems for the last few months. I’ve resorted to wearing these clunky clogs in an effort to sustain the well-being of my lower limbs.
The days are long, and I marvel at the dedication of my mother, uncles, brother, and some of the other girls and guys that are there before opening to midnight, roughly hours 7 AM to 12 AM and sometimes later. Even though I came to work late today (11 AM), I still managed to fit in 12 hours. You are constantly moving, constantly stacking or filling or carrying or painting or rolling or cupping or sugering something. It’s constant.
There is something about repetitive, manual work that I like. I would prefer to stack cookies than to talk on the phone with costumers. I like to think of myself as the packing mule; the one doing all the handy work and filling in the gaps where a worker is needed. It’s an Renaissance-Man sort of job. I work the men’s table (old traditions remain, but can be broken), I buttercream cakes, I bring things to the post office, I wing butterflies and soak babas. I learn to do a little bit of everything. Well. Not everything. I’m not very good with working the counter. I stay away from the counter on the holidays. People get a little scary when it’s Christmas Eve and they want their lobster tails. Really want them.
Meh. My computer is dying. I’m sleepy. I just want to talk to my girlfriend and make time to see her and see my other friends and get some fencing in and maybe go to the gym a few times and visit my high school properly and other things. But for now, I’ll just sleep. Because before you know it, it’s going to be 6:30 AM and I’ll be in my apron and chunky clogs by 7 AM, filling cakes.
On the bright side, there are really only three more days of bakery madness.
I can’t deal with people asking me for my notes or to study with me so they can pretty much use me for my notes.
This one guy keeps asking me and I keep trying to dodge it. In high school, there were so many times where people used me for my notes or homework or study guides and I generally didn’t say no to anyone. But now I’m all “Dude. I went to these classes. I took these notes. I cared. You didn’t. If your work shows poor performance it is probably a reflection of poor participation and involvement. And I’m not to blame for that.”
Sure, it’s as easy as sending an email. Copy. Paste. Send. Right? But then it becomes “Can you help me with this paper?” or “Can I borrow $50?” or “id onrtewkl owh wherrrrrrrrri am. Helppppmkpe????” (aka drunk texts asking for some help). Like, I like working alone. I like studying alone. I like writing alone. I like making things on my own. I take care of my shit on on my own. I rarely ask for people to help me. My brother would go running to my dad asking questions about his English papers or his accounting homework. I just did what I had to do, no questions or requests asked.
I mean, I’m a generally helpful person. But this is what I’m passionate about and if you plan on loafing around I have no sympathy for you.
I just imaged that I smelled my friend Lois. I haven’t seen her in quite some time, but I really thought I caught a hint of her scent at least in my mind. She always smelt a bit like kimchi and flowery body spray and yet a smell of neutral substance when you left the first two parts out.
Lois is a funny girl, really. And it’s funny how we managed to be friends in the first place and how I still manage to call her my friend though we probably haven’t talked in months. I suppose any sort of preconceived notion of what makes a person the friend-type for me can’t really be said with much solidity. Lois is a Korean Christian party girl with an obsession with media-dictated pretty things. She dyes her hair frequently, worries excessively about her weight, wears these strange plastic things on her eyelids to create a crease, and she listens to the sort of music I have very little patience for. But she is very sweet, a little naive and clueless to things, trustworthy and honest, generous and spiritually dedicated. I remember sleeping at her house one night and she told about how the devil and home to her while she was sleeping and she hid from him under the covers. At the time, I really believed this and had some trouble getting sleep that night. Lois was always easy trick and always easy to scare. Lois is still easy to trick and easy to scare.
I can’t understand why some people believe they need to be surrounded by tons of friends. In my opinion, the butter spreads thin. And I like butter. I like having my few close friends, and when they are busy I don’t mind the alone time all that much either. So when I think of people like Lois, girls that I spend months without talking to or hanging out with, I remember a little thing about myself. I’m not defined by my friendships. They have not dictated too much of my decisions and my desires and drives. My friends have been companions and partners on the ride, support, and not constantly needed either. Which is nice.
Sometimes, the best friends are the ones that you can neglect to call for weeks, the ones that you buy Christmas presents for in February, the ones that are always too busy, and the ones that can’t eat dinner with you every night. And despite all these things, nothing changes. And we are just friends again.
Leaf blower welcomed me through the sunshine window this morning. Persistent for some time and droning, lulling me to remain in the sheets. I sat at the desk, watched as the leaves floated up instead of spiraling down. Currents rising, wind shaking the green and blue post-it notes on the varnished wood above my brow. Slick brick floor, misty rain. Caution tape wrapped around the fence, flagging. My head filled, my thoughts consuming, my heart soggy and groggy to match these slate clouds. My love for her has yet to fail astonishing me and there is magic in it. We breed happiness, which suppose makes me half of that happiness. She the other. Though she sends me words of sadness and anxiety at 2:56 this morning, all I could do was sleep. All I can do now is listen to songs and read her words again and want to do something, want to change things, want to fix the sorrow and misery. I make comparisons again, build off the reference point, think “Again?” in some aspects. But not at all. I’m afraid to be the spark in the dark. I’ve been there. I’ve been the well of happiness and good and love during times of insecurity and fear and sadness. Which is why I think “again”. I don’t mind it, though. And with her, I’m not so much afraid because I believe that she will not place the misery on me.
But why do I want to take it?
Give me it all and I can disperse the weight.
I know that is wrong, because this isn’t about me. She must find her own solution, and not simply in me. And I can’t fix the problems. God, I want to fix them but there is not much I can do in that way.
I don’t know. My words are running in circles.
I need to go to my fencing lesson, and class, and study Italian and Cognitive Neuropsychology and I’m on page nothing of 8-10. So I should stop writing and worrying myself too much.
Listening to Hello Sadness. I feel like this album needs to be one that is playing in the background while you’re clenching onto the back of someone’s shirt, pulling them close, arms tensed, head buried deep into their collar bone, lying in bed with the blankets a strangling mess around your legs. It’s a strange thing for me to connect a break-up type of album with being with someone as apposed to clenching the blankets and being swallowed up by the emptiness of the bed and of your heavy heart. But maybe there is something about sharing those feelings of sadness and understanding that makes being with someone an experience worth participating in. Love ends. There is no reason to avoid the fear of it, and being able to see that together with open eyes while taking in the joy of still having love and a body to hold and joy. A lot of joy, and smiles, and laughs. But there is nothing wrong with shaking voices and tears and fright. I just see an appeal in going through that with someone by my side.
It’s strange to see a physical manifestation of Parmigianino’s Madonna with the Long Neck in a passerby, taking mannerism to real life and understanding how varied and strange and sensuous and grotesque and true and false and believable and unbelievable a body is.
I think of the shivers germinating from the nape of my neck as your fingers graced the rendezvous of scalp and skin. I think of the sole of your foot against my cheek, and we laugh. And we laugh a lot, and you laugh because you feel me laugh and I laugh because I always laugh.
My whole body goes wild sometimes, simply from letting my mind wander. The body is capable, palpable, and amazingly fashioned to do all it does in feeling and responding and knowing exactly what is meant by finger tips on skin.
Madonna’s neck holds her head high, and she knows. The girl walking with Madonna’s neck, she walks, and she knows.
It’s fascinating, because even I know that we all know. And it is still so intimately special.
