It was the one I knew would hit, sooner or later. In my slo-mo recollection, this giant wave shadows my upper-body as it towers above me for one foamy-capped frozen moment, and I have time to think, “Better inhale,” before it tosses me sideways and rolls me along the ocean floor along with the other sea junk.
Knees scraped, I stood and grinned at my friends. “Now it’s a vacation,” I said.
Weekend in beachtown. A kapow punch that makes you realize you’ve gone waaaay too far in one direction. There is danger in associating a place with all that is good, with all that works in your favor, because it simply isn’t ever true; when I lived here, I had my share of misadventure, my share of angst and dread mostly of my own invention. But a vacation here reminds me of what should be. At the risk of sounding…
—I want to write some sentence starting with those words. To apologize for the hackneyed form these constructions take, coming out of so rusty an instrument. (There’s nothing worse, after all, than knowing what quality is and the ability to recognize your own distance from it, but not yet knowing what to do to bridge that gulf. That knowledge, it paralyzes. That knowledge is the very worst thing.)
But I’m tired of thinking, “At the risk of sounding” anything. So, what’s needed is: More yoga, less Facebook. More music playing, less applying for jobs I don’t even really want. More writing. Fewer status updates. More writing. Less networking. More friendships. Perhaps a little less coffee. More time in this world as it is. Less thinking about its artifice.