Beach Babies
ISSUE #165
Whenever I find myself walking beneath the bright belly of an ocean moon, I feel the stars protecting me like the dry braille of a living room ceiling. The sea is my home and every dune is an ottoman, the waves my roaring, salted hearth.
Primordial calm sinks in when I’m sitting on a beach, some cosmic swirl of instinct and shadowed memory. If I could, I’d crawl back through the yarns of time, ego sloughing off in the volcanic air, no longer cursed by the workweek or wifi—but I can settle for a sunny day with music and Pauline Kael.
Who cares? I made a playlist for the road to the beach. Crack that sucker open already.
Places where the land ends are pure—you can hear water like that a mile away. Oceans are perfect, even radical, in their isolation. You could swim out into the sea as far as you like, if what you wanted was to drown, yet this desire to be free is forever compelling.