I turned down the pirate party pot-luck with the heavy-duty lesbians and classmate light-weights who count your drinks for you. I appreciate them one and all, quirks even, but for the chance to shack up in a tent with my baby for two more days... well... the choice seems obvious to me.
T'was the right choice, even though all the meteorologists foretold of pouring rain and thunderstorms. We were not tented and tarped up one short hour before the deluge began. To the north the beach was dark and seamy, to the south, pink and hopeful. Stormy skies make me feel so lusty and pained. I wish I had a palette of colors so vivid as those in the shadow of a thunderhead at dusk. I would paint my clothes on.
True to my word I can start a campfire in a squall on the Oregon coast with no kindling, and only a damp crossword from the daily paper. Under the tarp we ate hot cheesy potatoes and played cards, our feet an inch deep in mud, timing the span between the huge splashes of water that rolled out of the tarp over our heads when it pooled too deep.
After the sunset the lightening. After the thunder the rain. After two hours the storm just drifted away like a puff of vapor and the stars came out. We stoked the fire up, didn't say much. Didn't even complain.
We woke to a perfect morning. Hiked to the end of the cape with only minor theatrics. Nothing so dramatic as falling off the cliff, just shreeky heartstop handfluttertothroat every time a slug snuck up on me. I am ridiculous and foolish. We had to share the tiptop of the cape with an elderly Swedish couple surrounded by strong musky flowering bushes which confused my senses and make me vaguely irritable.
I am stingy and resentful and want to make-out ten thousand feet above the tranquil ocean without Swedes munching on apples behind me.
I worry that I will not be able to decompose when I die. I want to be immortal. I want to photosynthesize, roots wrapped around my bones and leaves spread to the sky.
As far as I know, the only way to become bio-mass is to get murdered and buried in a shallow grave in the woods. This frustrates me.
I will think more on it later. An acceptable solution is not immediately apparent, yet this is very important to me.
I cant take credit for this picture. It was the BF who gasped and grabbed the camera. Who will eat the moldy dog turds if not the lowly slug?
This is the major hitch in my plans. I know I can't pick and chose my decomposers but if I could, for the record, I prefer worms and microbes. Thank you.
The south end of the beach was covered with the half living debris of an enormous land slide, just before the cliff wall.
Then the sun set. The end.
By necessity we drive all through my old life and past my old house and by design I feel ghostly and the wind blows through me. I say a thousand little prayers and tell outrageous stories that exhaust me and help pass the time on the road home.
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