Waves come in to hit the shore.
I love it this way, the beach in the wintertime, and the cold air, the blue sky and the bright sun, which is high and full but the winds are cold—but not to me.
No, I suppose this is the warmest place I can think of.
The beach in wintertime . . .
The gulls fly overhead and the waves seem to echo, like the sound of something revolving which, to me, I see this as Mother Earth’s breathing in and out, up and down, like the chest of the world filling as she inhales, and going down as Mother breathes out.
There is so much here.
There are memories from when I was small and before the world took me away from my childhood.
There are memories of long walks with my Father, The Old Man, and me, little as ever, trying to keep up the pace and making sure to step at least one step in The Old Man’s footprints in the sand—this way I could be like my hero, and follow in my Old Man’s footsteps.
There is more to this than my childhood memory.
There is a relief from crazy nights and memories of afterhours places in the City, and me, standing defiantly in my young adulthood, longhaired and wearing one of my trusty outfits, filled with angst, confusion, desire, wishes and dreams, hopes and aspirations.
I recall the late-night drives after being out with “the boys” and finding myself missing or misplaced.
I recall leaving the City and driving home while the sun came up. I could smell the remnants of the night on my clothes, my cigarettes held in my trusted pocket, my cologne smelling with a mixture of the drinks that splashed on me at the bar.
I remember passing my exit and not even thinking—just driving, and heading south on the Meadowbrook Parkway.
I remember driving over the Loop Parkway bridge and ending up in Point Lookout, and crossing over from the exit, and driving into the parking lot of an empty beach.
No one was around.
Then again, who comes around to the beach at sunrise in the middle of winter?
I took my best stance.
I tried to perfect my walk and my lean. I tried to perfect everything about me, like the way I would pull a cigarette from the pack and place the butt in my mouth.
I rehearsed how I would cup the flame and then light the tip, and smoke that first drag and blow the smoke up to the sky,.
This was a move, as if I were some rebel, defying the heavens or announcing my pain, as if to be callous or unmoved and ever proving that no matter what, I could endure—but ah, The Mother, she knows me.
Mother Earth, The Great and Almighty, the bosom of the world cupping me like a tiny child and coddling me in the warmth of her breast.
I always knew that I wasn’t tough.
But I wanted to be.
I wanted to be smooth.
I wanted to be uncaring whether someone goes or stays and whether the times were good or bad, right or wrong, or whether the night was successful or not, I wanted to pull off a look or an approach, or even an exit, as if to say, I don’t care either way.
Nothing can hurt me.
Not even you.
But none of this was so.
I knew you then, same as I know you now.
Then again, I’ve always known you; my only love, my dream, and my hope that someday, I would find myself where I’m supposed to be, or preferably, with you in my arms because no matter where I’d be, I’d be perfect . . .
if you were with me.
I was never tough.
I’m not tough now, which is tough to admit,
but true.
And again, I knew it and I suppose you knew this too, that yes, I could hurt, and I could feel pain. I could hardly endure and hardly keep sane. I could hardly keep my excitement to myself because somehow, somewhere, I knew you’d come into my life and then . . .
my dream would come true.
I stood there, trying to pull off my stance.
I was lovesick and mad and hopeful and hopeless all at the same time.
The beach knew me like a friend.
The pose was unnecessary, but she knew why i tried.
I was fine to stand in the sands beneath a new sky.
The night just ended and the day was about to begin—and me, I hadn’t seen my bed or slept in more than 24 to 30 something hours.
Ah, the young man I used to be.
I remember the cold winds blowing across my face and my hair blowing in the wind. I remember smoking one of my Camel cigarettes.
I’d take in the smoke, as if this somehow helped me form an answer for myself.
I’d tell my dreams and secrets to the waves, which came in and took my hopes and wishes to wherever they go.
There are other nights, like the time after a wedding. This is when I realized that life was about to change, and that the true meaning of adulthood was about to become real.
Friends were moving. I was facing a new life.
I had no idea what it meant to be responsible. I had no clue what it meant to pay bills or be accountable for my debts.
I always thought that I would figure a way or find a hustle or try and swindle what I could—but life is funny.
Life is a teacher and the things about teachers is if you do something wrong, they make you do it again—until you get it right; only, I wasn’t sure what I was missing in the lessons and I never figured out how to get it right.
I remember standing at the edge of the water and watching the waves come in.
I was wearing a tuxedo because I was one of the groom’s men—my shirt opened up, tie undone, and my life was unclear as to who I would become.
I am bound for a visit soon.
The beach when its empty –
I go here because i do not go to cemeteries.
Besides, that’s where dead people live.
I need a visit.
I need a sign.
I need something.
(Mom)
The beach.
She has always been there for me.
Then again, she is the Ever-loving Mother, Mother Earth—my guide, my hope, and the hand to help me when life gets cold.
Ah, Mother . . .
There is nothing so strong as a Mother’s love.
Watch over me, Mother.
The winter is not too far away, love is real, and there is love in my heart and, of course, I don’t want to feel the cold
(without her).
The Written Addiction 