Following. A strange act to follow, rampaging wild and say, footloose. But frankly, if such an act remains possible (remains at all): to be frank, to speak frankly; regards to one's biases and seeking to acknowledge and eschew them. But frankly, it is the act of following, to follow, to follow after that remains strange, the strange. To choose a page, a stage, a path, a venue that has been chosen, chosen before, chosen for, chosen again; established.
I sit on the beach, it has been so long, so long, my friend. Blessed be. I sit on the beach in the late morning wind, shirtless to the high and rising sun, pen succumbing to the elements, elemental decay, wondering if I should take the plunge. No one is swimming, perhaps I should have checked the flags before cooking my feet on the hot sand, or called ahead. The surf is up with the wind but there doesn't seem to be any extreme wildlife danger, the sharks keep to the pier. Wondering if any of the women - they are all women at this hour - are watching me, watching me waiting for me to watch them, to notice they have undone their tops to remove tan lines from their backs how risqué, how much more absurd to only have them up front, pale breasts shyly exposed to husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, empty fitness center lockers with lines extended to the clavicle no further. I don't watch, they are incidental, I have come here to film. Perhaps meditate. I have begun to sweat.
The water was cool, cool to warm, nicely so and the sunlight sparkled beneath the clear waves. There is a shot in there, if I can get it. I have limited equipment. The ice has melted from my bottle. The women do not seem to think (perhaps they do not care, perhaps they revel in the audacity) I have come here to film them. Perhaps this is common. Perhaps nothing is absurd enough to pull them from their sunbathing, their beach reads.Just a man, ankle deep in the water, staring out to the horizon with a multiplicity of eyes. Also, perhaps, perpetual motion.