Here are a few shots from my recent hunting trip to Carlsbad beach. Instead of taking time to integrate them into a written piece, or essay, as is my typical modus operandi, I thought I would present the shots and try to let them stand on their own. These were taken with my borrowed Rebel 350D with the stock 18-55mm, if you are into that kind of thing.
Let me tell you about Leslie.
Leslie and I went to the beach last week. I’m still quite self conscious about being seen snapping pictures, so I decided to take my camera to get more comfortable with the whole idea. After all, I would have a captive subject right there with me. We chatted as I pulled out the camera and pointed it at the horizon. I worked a few test shots, adjusted the ISO and aperture to where I wanted it. I fiddled with the shutter release, the camera body is old and button has a tendency to stick. I got everything ready.
And then I turned the camera to her.
Immediately, Leslie let out a cry of embarrassment and covered her face with her hands. But after a moment her fingers slid apart and she peeked out to see if I was still waiting to take the picture, I was.
It wasn’t a bid for attention, not a demure display to provoke a compliment, it was genuine embarrassment overcome by budding delight over the compliment. It was the playful reaction of somebody with firm internal confidence balanced against genuine modesty.
Because that, at the core, is what she is, genuine.
Today marks our first entire year together. Around this time last year, we were dressed up as pirates and sent to chase visitors around the LegoLand parking lot as they arrived for a special event. We even managed to hassle a few celebrities as well. Leslie and I had interacted in the past, mostly a few half remembered conversations that she insists actually took place, but this was the first time we really socialized.
So we ran around, made up jokes, and acted ridiculous. Personally, I acted especially ridiculous, pulling out every dumb, half mad, character shtick I had in my comedy grab bag. Any person watching me that day would probably wonder if I hadn’t been out in the sun too long. Instead, I made her laugh, and, even better, she made me laugh. But she did more than that.
She made me stop worrying about the future.
The course of my life has been thrown into chaos several times in the past, sometimes rather severally. Each time it was related to a toxic relationship. And my secret ingrained fear of being alone would force me to keep that toxic element around far too long, or have me jump right back into an equally bad situation. So it kept happening.
Realizing this, when I came to Southern California over two years ago I vowed that I wouldn’t make that same mistake again, never again. So I was single for a long time. At some point the worry took over. I’m a terrible dater, I have almost zero experience with it. Now I was worried that if I did meet somebody, would I actually be able to ask them out? Would I be able to find somebody in the first place? I was happy being single, not looking for a relationship in the slightest, and even still a thousand voices whispered what ifs into my ear.
One day while dressed as a pirate was all it took.
She silenced the voices and filled my life with a genuine love, understanding, openness, and honesty that I’ve never had before. These things not only exist between us in the relationship, but also continually spread to dwell within us as well. It is an openness and honesty directed not only to the other person, but also to ourselves. The arete of the relationship cultivating us as people.
This first year has flash by in a heartbeat. The time we’ve spent together seeming to extend to the horizon of memory, and at the same time like it all just happened, or is just about to. Leslie, you have all my love. I don’t know where our journey is going to take us, but I know it’s going to be incredible.
This is only the beginning.
There was an artist down on the beach today. He was drawing lines in the sand.
I’ve seen him here before. His drawings are intricate and sprawling, patterns and shapes crashing together to somehow create a seamless picture. As my knowledge of art history is entirely limited to the realm of French Impressionism, I can’t identify the style, but that doesn’t matter.
It’s beautiful.
The man appears on the beach at random, staking out several dozen yards within the shadow of the overhead pier that stretches far out past the breakers. He wears faded shorts, a loose buttoned shirt, and a wide straw hat that would look at home perched on an old southern woman tending her vegetable garden.
He begins working without a pause using a piece of driftwood scavenged from the beach. He drags the driftwood through the sands, lines, then shapes, then patterns. People gather on the pier to watch him drawing below, speculations pass between them. Everybody whispers like they are in church. They throw dirty looks to people who walk by without noticing, talking loudly.
This is now a sacred space.
The man works for over an hour. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t consult any sketch or plan. He paces back and forth within the drawing, stooping to rub out a line or draw out another. Sometimes he draws in short quick swipes at the sand, some he cuts in long smooth swoops. Whenever you think he might be done an entire new dimension to the piece blossoms.
You know he is finished when he finally steps back. It’s then that he pauses for a moment before scrawling his name at the bottom. Then, without looking, he throws his driftwood into the whitewash and goes to sit on a rock. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs.
It’s his turn to watch the show.
The art is more than the lines in the sand, more than the picture. It’s not art, in the traditional sense, it’s a performance. You watch the sand transform into something new and wonderful, then you watch it fade away again.
It starts slowly at first. Kids wandering by kicking at the small ridges in the sand, parents barely taking notices. Couples walking hand in hand trailing footsteps right through the center. Joggers, dogs, Frisbee players, they all take a piece of the image with them. The people on the pier above shout and wave their hands, trying to stave off disaster. They are furious at how people can be so oblivious.
The man just watches.
He sits on his rock, his knees tucked up, hugging his legs. He might be smiling but it’s hard to see beneath the long brim of his hat. Finally, the tide rolls in and with each caress of sea foam it washes the sand clean. When there is nothing left but a smooth stretch of beach, the man gets up and leaves without a word.
I’ve never taken a picture of his work, that spoils it. The fragile, temporal nature of it is just as important as the drawing itself. Like watching a play, what you are witnessing here and now will only happen exactly that way once, then it is gone forever.
I’ve seen him several times before, I don’t know his name, I don’t know who he is, I don’t know what he does. I suppose I could find out if I took a little time to research or ask around, but I would rather leave him a mystery. For me, I’m happy that he remain the guy who draws lines in the sand.
All we build all we
are, lines in the sand.
We slowly build shape,
until there is naught
to add. Then we fade
piece by piece until
nothing remains,
And we wash away
to rejoin the sea.
Weasel Tea 