I do not surf. That is, I have never ridden a surfboard. (I did body-surf once, in Florida, until I saw a shark the size of a collie eating fish parts at the pier.) And though I love the ocean, am mesmerized by the whoosh of waves and mellowed by the flow of negative ions, the truth is that rock is my element of choice. I love the flow of the cross-beds, the perky solution-pockets, the ghost-whisper of water and wind. And though the occasional shark tooth does turn up now and then, I feel relatively safe walking on the petrified dunes. They stretch out sometimes to the horizon, giving me a sense of grace and possibility that might be an illusion, or maybe just a metaphor. For time.
This blog used to be call Hot Flash Hell, but the hot flashes have mostly gone away and I am trying to come to terms with the next stage of life. I am grateful--mostly--for the beauty of days and the warmth of friends. I still get pissed off, but stupidity makes me more often sad than angry. I don't know if this is a good thing or not, but there it is. Hell is what you make it. I take my sadness (and anger), cast it out to waves of stone; they carry it away.
Then I surf.
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