I came down to the shore for the full moon.
The sky is clouded – not a star in sight – nothing but the pale gray of a nearly solid-white night-sky. The only exception to the dull concrete atmosphere, the deep blue darkness of the enveloping horizon.
A stiff onshore wind has forced me to turn away from the sea; directing my back to the water, my hood now pulled up, I face a row of soulless condominiums – lifeless aside from the synthetic strobe-like glow of a television illuminating one of the rectangular living areas. Next to me, the storm drain access-point protrudes from the sand, I notice this as it comes to life with sound: a surge of what I imagine to be sewage rushes through it towards the blackish body of seawater behind me.
I had not expected to find myself staring at the chockablock facades of khaki and tan condo buildings while listening to a thousand gallons of inorganic water flushing into the ocean; I wished to meditate under a full moon but the clouds refuse to budge, unmoved by the wind whipping at my back.
I’m cold and the unnatural sound of the storm drain mechanically purging itself into the sea has once again roused me.
Fuck this, I’m going home.
On the way home, I pull out a small piece of charcoal from my pocket – for I bring bits of found beach charcoal home, where I place them in a mason jar and pull them out to draw – so, removing the charcoal from my pocket, I crouch low and, in an act of frustration, I tag the sidewalk with the lyrics of rapper Kendrick Lamar:
Back home, I know I must do something to solace myself; I was already in need of meditation. Having given up all mind adulterants, art is the only escape I have left.
I grab my laptop and put on the twenty-twelve version of Les Miserables.
Thank G-d for Victor Hugo, I say to myself as the movie begins.