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.
It’s been five years since Blonde came out, and five years since I left home. That was the day I drove 750 miles south with a trailer and my boxes of freshly cut shorts.