September 10, 2007


Perhaps it is the inborn nature of a trip that requires supply lists. Or maybe that is the hurt of the dunes: a refusal to be mastered. Somehow, it's always a bit of a fiasco. You try and go to the beach with your melons and expectation, and you have all the supplies, yet not all of the people. I dunno if I'm interested in getting it right. The chaos subsides, the water and company and sand and sandwiches are plentysome and then it's seven hours later and yr checking out yr reversed-out pink raccoon face sunburn in the rearview thinking "fuck it."

Nora wound up at another beach--absconded and webbed within someone elses haphazard plan. My phone was on my nightstand, and I was on the sunny beach with Kelly and Heather. We made some calls on Kelly's and took down phone numbers in the sand (handy, multi-use) and yet it was destined to be a missed connection. Noah came too, all the way from the city spectre on his motorcycle, and he did not find us. We baked in the sun alone, just the three of us. Watching the people on the human-carrying kites drift from Mt. Baldy, over the steam of the cooling tower and then hover above us.

I remembered the knife this time though, I housed it in a homemade sheath of painters tape and a decorative hand towel. It was awful big to brandish in public, it's hugeness felt sinister, glinting as I sliced the cantaloupe. The waves were high and we jumped in them, we ditched the veggie snacks for half melted euro-cookies that came in in a roll and spent the whole afternoon chatting towel to towel. We were playing the "game" that Ben introduced me to which is not a game, it's actually just a device to discuss what celebrities you would sleep with, but "game" sounds more reasonable. Four categories: Life partner, one night stand, one night stand that you would never tell anyone about, torrid affair. The game can go on for a long time if you do categories: dead people only, musicians only, same/opp. sex etc. Since Kelly picked "Lily Tomlin at 70" as her one night stand she'd never tell anyone about, I felt safe saying that Charlie Rose is my usual pick for life partner. (Mind you, I'm not actually attracted to Charlie Rose, but if I were Charlie Rose's life partner it means I could have bonkers dinner parties. Though I doubt Joan Didion would come. But maybe she would. And if she didn't then maybe Gwen Ifill or a gang of epidemiologists, Chuck D, some bible scholars, Jasper Johns, and Craig Finn. Plus, Charlie Rose owns part of an island, so I too would own part of an island, since marriage is about sharing. On the island, I would have a treehouse like in Swiss Family Robinson movie all to my self.)

We stayed all day the beach, phoneless, not minding the time, or the suns powerful rays. We just built some rock piles and kept running into the waves clothed and then racing down the dunes. From the top of the dunes, we could see that the boys who had been around earlier had written the word "PENIS" on the shore in 15 foot high letters. I won't tell you what we wrote back.

Posted by Jessica at September 10, 2007 02:34 PM | TrackBack