If the west is cracked dirt and endless horizons, longing, and not knowing, then the beach feels like closure (even a shitty one like Myrtle). Here, sea gulls herald a respite to frontier, and the coast sends me curling back into myself in breakers both nostalgic and insightful. Lying on the strand, at the end of some world, there's sheer release in not remembering dreams. There's release in finding a momentary home within laughter, sunburn; others (ever the Matthiesson enthusiast, now's the time to point toward "To glimpse one's own true nature is a kind of homegoing, to -- a place east of the sun, west of the moon -- the homegoing that needs no home"). But maybe that's it -- limits return us to what matters: beautiful people (whom I totally don't have pictures of #iswearihavefriends).
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| faded |
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| Chucktown tucks it in |
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ShayButtuh goes Native
Back and cruisin' with Buttuh on the Blue Ridge, Hass's "a word is elegy to what it signifies" shoots a new furrow in my mind, counter to the way it has always run; this time, I like the ritual of losing myself in the naming of things.
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