40 Little Deaths Little Delights

Water is Water

At the waterfront

I sit in the car's shade observing

a storm roll over and dissipate

the break driving the

Surfers back to their cars to sit

Doors open peeling suits off

Water is water,

Is what one lady says to the next

・゜゜・．

I swam in the ocean only three times this summer. There was word of sharks, there was word of flesh-eating bacteria, there was word of my missing leopard print bikini bottoms washed up in Puerto Rico. You cannot believe everything, but it's quite funny if you do. Speaking of Puerto Rico, I wrote a piece a while back on the sexual relationship between open ocean waters and a woman's body, after drinking four old fashioneds in Rincón and lying with legs splayed to the sea. No human body has pulsed into me the way the ocean has. I'm grateful not to have moved to Los Angeles when I wanted to; LA makes the ocean look like a loose woman. The Atlantic, on the other hand, is elusive and accessible for only the warmest of months. I like a lady with a bit of fight in her. A bit of grit, a bit of tooth, a bit of machine gun. I cannot wait to meet with her again.

LITTLE DEATHS

- Locking yourself out of your apartment. You swore it would never happen again.
- Showers without musical accompaniment
- Waking in a cold sweat (you are not the worst person in the world)

LITTLE DELIGHTS

- The physical resurgence of love you experience when reuniting with an old friend
- Tiny little wristwatches
- Bi-annual rewatches of Amélie

With burning loins,

Mar