A Seaside Morning, Slowed To Quarter Speed

Smell the flowers while you can. – David Wojnarowicz
You were somewhere deep in the intercourse of a dream
when the alarm went off. You rolled over, killed the alarm,
and glared outside at the low-hanging grayness—then you 
pulled yourself out of bed and walked to the kitchen to start 
the coffee. You needed more time to sleep, but the time 
had already planned its escape, and as the coffee brewed, 
you paused for a moment, lulled into a dead stare at the fuel 
filling its glass tank and getting ready to ignite. And the vague 

lethargy that held you there staring at it knew that you weren't 
focused on the liquid but rather the deep, nebulous well its blackness 
represented as you watched it climb to the top: the deeper knowledge 
that something important was being drained to make room for what 
that blackness meant. You forced yourself to look away to the front 
door of your small apartment that led to the sundeck overlooking 
the boardwalk, and you went to the door, turned the handle, 
and stepped outside. The thermometer hanging from the balcony
read 71 degrees. The overcast was immense, and it was the 

strangest thing—it wasn’t moving. It was fixed and defiant,
almost laughing, as if a fugitive mass of unconsciousness
had broken free and graffitied the city with thick, heavy paint
stolen from of the sea. And suddenly you forgot—were you really
awake, or still alive, or a disembodied subject for oil and canvas,
smoking a cigarette on the sundeck? The tourists on the beach
were perfect copies of nudes lazing in a steamy meadow, the surf-
boards were bent like blades of wet grass, and even the lifeguards 
were lax and luxuriating. The waves tumbled over and over 

like playful lovers wrestling in the sand—then a jet liner
leaned into a plush blanket of clouds, and you watched 
through scattered breaks in the clouds its fat white belly as it 
yawned across the sky. You walked back inside to the kitchen, 
leaned your painted figure against the counter, and began pouring 
cream for the coffee—but it was so thick and heavy and irrepressibly 
sweet, that you left the coffee and filled the cup with cream. 
Then you picked up the phone and planned your escape.
Pacific Beach, California, February 2000
Featured on Freshly Pressed on August 4th, 2014.
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40 thoughts on “A Seaside Morning, Slowed To Quarter Speed

  1. Pingback: Dry-Humping Parnassus
  2. Pingback: What a Bunch of Followers! All 2,000 of You! | Dry-Humping Parnassus
  3. Sometimes, their is an irrepressible urge to give in to your anarchistic impulses…triggered by a day that seduces you with its simple yet intoxicating pleasures that have nothing to do with the workaday world. Thank you for making a simple decision to opt for a bit of freedom so wonderfully enjoyable to read.

    Liked by 1 person

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