Beach at Sunrise

Several miles away from our perch on the edge of the Pacific are a row of cliffs that rise steeply from the ocean waters. They are a uniform purple, their thick shape emerging from the early morning mist of salted spray that hovers over the choppy waves like a silvery ghost. Behind the cliffs, the sky is pink with yellow undertones, a brilliance cast from the emerging sun still hidden behind the low hills to the east which promises the warmest of days.
The ocean stretches out for miles towards the horizon, the waves frosty blue with bright white caps which glow intensely, reflecting the brightness of the sky. As the dawn rolls in, right on time, the wind whips up a trail of moisture from the peaks, leaving an ephemeral white trail behind them which lingers for a moment then disappears into the water and air. The light above plays on the water's surface, casting a hint of pink  which creates a soft glassy hue. This is also true for the water left cascading backwards on the sand to the sea, though the shades of pink vary depending on the amount of water on any given area of cold beach.
I watch the tiny shape of a person on the sand, perhaps a few hundred feet away. They are silhouetted and black against the glowing ground.
Lines of seagulls hover just inches above the water line, coasting on the breeze, barely moving a wing.
We sit on a dirt pullout, a single fence of wooden posts spaced five feet apart and connected by two thick jute ropes spaced a foot and a half apart. A white van is parked to the right of us, the driver taking photos of the landscape with a black phone. To the left, a woman has a towel wrapped around her waist as she undresses and squeezes into a black spongy wetsuit.  Along the coast, about a hundred feet to the left are a row of cars where surfers are in various stages of undress with towels providing a modicum of modesty.
There are a few surfers in the water, about a few hundred feet away. They look smaller than the seagulls, like black pebbles amid the influx of the white capped waves and dark blue waters.

Ocean Beach

The heat of the sun has warmed a billion grains of golden hued sand. They glitter, the multitude of black brown, tan and glassy white, which sparkle like jewels or stars against a pale sky.  Down low, at eye level with the sand, it is an endless expanse, a Sahara of pointed dunes and valleys and not a speck of green.

Ten feet away is a burned up 2x4, the last remnant of a bonfire. It is charred almost all the way through, black and speckled and white with ash, though on one side, the last three inches are untouched by flame.  The right angles are completely intact, as perfect as the day it was cut in a mill long ago.
To the left is a dark blue sea. Incessant waves roll in, not a moment of lag time between the breaking crests which create a constant roar drowning out all other sounds of children playing, seagull squawks or the cars along Highway 1.

Two small land masses sit just off the coastline just about 100 feet from shore. Birds flock to them en mass and cover them with fluff and droppings. Two black seagulls coast on the constant breeze while dozens more sit on the sand in a tight group.

To the right is a gray cement sea wall. Every 100 feet is a flight of seven stairs leading up to the street and the parking lot.  Graffiti speckles the hard canvas, dozens of tags in big balloon letters testify to a midnight voyage, a clandestine moment.
Past the parking lot and Highway 1 is a group of pale orange apartment complexes. To the right of those is a collection of multi-colored townhouses: green, blue, gray, pale gray, and a dull mauve. Behind the townhouses is a hill covered in deep green cypress and interspersed yellow-green shrubs, at the top of which is a small water tower. 
Highway 1 curves along the side of the hill winding out of sight.

Close to the water people walk together mostly in pairs.  Two teenagers, one of them wearing a Batman t-shirt with attached hood and bat ears, have picked up a discarded beach chair. They carry it towards the water, their shoes balanced on the plastic seat as they navigate the sandy terrain.
A flock of black birds takes off from the sand heading west, then quickly change course and fly east.

Coast

The two lane black tar road clings to the side of the mountain. Below, a thousand foot drop is the ocean- wide and blue, stretching to the horizon.
Emerging from the frigid waters are small islands of rocks. They look like the dropped pebbles from a giant child. There are a few dozen, several covered in white bird droppings. They look massive and temporary at the same time- strong and yet susceptible to all the elements, to every bird and human travelling along the coast.
The beaches far below, inaccessible to those without wings, are covered in bleached white logs from long-ago felled timber. Strewn every which way on the white sand, they stay until high tide and then continue on their journey.
The road snakes through the inclines and down into the forested valleys, winding, creating switchbacks.  Pale, slightly overcast blue skies contrast with the deep dark blue of the sea. A slight bit of haze gathers at the horizon, promising more fog.
The cliff sides are rocks, jutting and made of slightly red earth that seems to be a combination of sand and stone. The mountains teem with life and vegetation. Bushes and shrubs cover it in every shade of green.  Wild flowers poke out from rock faces and at the edge of the road where the tar has crumbled back into sandy earth.
A mixture of pale yellow and bright orange California poppies spot the landscape. Tiny yellow buds on top of wispy stems rise several feet from the earth and look like a million bright stars, left somehow ignited in the daylight. A smattering of tiny purple and pink flowers are all mingled with the beige, dried up coastal grasses that sprout from every available surface.
The road coils like a black snake, up and down hills and mountains, through thick brush on either side, sliced through reddish earth. Wild fennel and mustard plants line up along the sides of the road like soft guardians. The fennel, bushy and soft like feathers, the mustard, bright and electric yellow buds sway in the salty coastal air. 
Only a few hundred feet from the road the forest begins, thick woods with pine and redwood and enormous ferns. Every now and then is a house, part of the ecology of the mountain. 
The moon, a thin crescent, hangs high above, still bright against the blue sky.

Ocean Tunnels

There is a wide central chamber, it is the heart of the underground labyrinth with five tunnel-like offshoots that jut from it like gentle invitations for exploration. The offshoots themselves branch off into other tunnels that go on for miles. 
The chamber and tunnels are carved from thick stone. Though there are walls and an overhead roof, the chamber and the tunnels are filled with light which is clear and bright. It holds a pinkish, golden hue that is diffused and does not seem to come from a singular source, rather it seems to both emanate from and come into the space, like a continuous and simultaneous inhalation and exhalation that emerges from the plants and water and sand, from the overhead rocks and walls. 
The ground of the central chamber is covered in a thick carpet of sand. It is grainy and the color of butterscotch and holds the warmth of the pink golden light in each teeny tiny stone.
The ocean is here in this space. It is here, emanating and pulsing, dousing the space with the calm reverberations of constant trance-like movement. 
A row of lifeguards, seven men and women wearing matching red bathing suits, stand in a line, all leaning against a large blue van that faces away from the water source, they stare at the stone wall.
The bed of sand spreads out into the tunnels for several feet and then tapers off into smooth, worn stone.  There are engravings in the tunnel walls and floors. They are ancient and left by careful craftsmen several thousand years before. Dug from the ground, beside a fern growing from a crack, is a bowl in the shape of a sea-shell. The edges of the small pool are scalloped and inside is a bit of tepid water that has grown a bit of vibrant green moss that gently sways. 
The water is sweet and little birds use it for drinking and for baths. The tunnels are bright and just as light as the main chamber. The enormity and strength of the stone walls are balanced with a cool breeze and foliage and a sense of openness.
The chamber is soft and calm, the ocean so tranquil, the tunnels decorated so beautifully. I cry for the beauty I see.

Shelter

There is a nest of Monterey cypress overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The water is less than a mile away, buffered from the cypress patch by a series of low hills and sand dunes which are covered in succulents and low-growing shrubs. 
The ocean is dotted with white caps and shrouded by mist. From the cliff side it appears pale blue and ephemeral. On the dunes, wisps of sand are lifted by the constant ocean wind and sweep over the rich array of yellow, pale red, pink and green hues of the succulents and thin desert grasses.  The plants bend in the wind and seem malleable by nature and design, built to tilt, but they stay firmly rooted. 
The nest of trees grows on the edge of the cliff, the massive cluster of roots holds the sandy soil together with their weave of hardened lumber. The collection of cypress have grown over the years into a dome shape, creating a rounded shelter protecting the center from the ever present ocean breeze full of seaweed scent and salt.  The majority of the rough trunks are stooped from years of strong winds, some of them grow thick, yet almost parallel to the ground.
Within the dome, which is open and free of vegetation but for the blanket of brown, fallen cypress needles, the air is slightly warmer and nearly without breeze.  It smells deeply of earth and soil and just a hint of stagnant soil.
There is a small pile of wood on the ground just a few feet from center. It has been reduced almost to charcoal and only a few blackened logs remain. An empty 40oz bottle of the cheapest variety is lodged between a thicket of trucks along the edge of the living wall; the trees are cluttered around the periphery. Dozens of trunks grow almost on top of each other, emerging from nearly the same space in the earth, their branches compete for sunlight, struggling upward despite the force of wind.
A topless girl is dancing, protected by the wall of trees in all directions. She has on tight jeans so faded now that the fabric appears gray. Though her pale skin is protected from the ocean air by the shelter of green, her nipples are pointed, still reacting to the sunless sky. 
She runs back and forth from her camera to a wide space in the center of the dome, twirling her body as the green light on the camera blinks in perfect rhythm until it doubles in speed and then beeps and the flash ignites, lighting her pale skin for a moment of further brilliance.
She runs to check the camera, sets it again against a small fallen branch on the ground, then sets the timer once again as she runs to the center of the needled floor, waving her arms around her in a motion of ecstatic abandon. 
A seagull caws somewhere close by, its sound carried like the salt and seaweed scent. The girl swings her arms, juts out her hips, and looks once more at the camera.

House By The Waves

The light outside the cottage is warm and golden. The sky is blue with just a few patches of white fluffy clouds.
Magenta bougainvillea and dark purple morning glory vines wrap around the single room cottage like a pair of breathing arms.
There is a narrow walking path on the periphery of the home which climbs ever so gently up a subtle slope in the landscape. The path is augmented by five weathered wooden steps as it climbs.
A black cat, its coat warmed by the bright heat, sits licking its left paw on the second step.
The main space is wide an ample, though its space is taken up mostly by furniture. Upon a large area rug of muted red and orange hues are two couches facing each other and separated by a long wooden coffee table.
The aesthetic is warm and country-like.  Soft throw blankets are folded and draped over the back of each sofa. The kitchen is separated from the main room by just a four foot high wall which can be used as a tabletop. The kitchen space is dim, though the honey colored wood of the cabinets glows faintly with colorful warmth. 
The house is well used and the mismatched contents are rustic and well worn.  Everything inside is meant to be touched and used and laid upon.
Two brunette women stand beside the coffee table, both of them looking at the pair of double wide glass doors along the side of the living room.
The west side of the cottage meets the ocean. Large waves break and explode onto the strong doors, leaving streaks of white foam dripping down the sides. There are brief intervals between waves, a mixture of blue and opalescent green presents itself before vanishing into bursts of frothy saltwater.

Rocky Sea

The building has the aesthetic of 70s style architecture with flat rooftops and minimal flair, a structure that does not hide its boxiness, but rather flaunts it. It is an apartment building with about 60 individual units organized into three structures of 30 apartments each. The three distinct box-shaped areas are pushed together like cluster squares; from above, they look like a disjointed letter T.  Each building has three stories. Along the edge of each level is a hallway-balcony in front of the doors that lead to each unit, a style popular in motels across the United States. The hallway/balcony is about four feet wide and has a three foot tall black iron fence which delineates the edge. 
The building is constructed and decorated with differing shades and types of wood.  The front doors of each unit are a deep cherry wood which are trimmed along the edges with a paler blond wood with a glossy veneer. The walls of the building which face the balcony are lined with alternating planks of wood, each with a unique wood grain and color.  Each is shined to perfection.
I am standing on the balcony of the third story and look down from what seems like a great distance. Earth is not below, rather, I see a ragged reef of huge gray and white boulders with waves that lap against their sides. 
The assemblage of rocks stretches into the distance and fades into the horizon. The ocean water is a mixture of different colors, in places looking dark blue, in others spotted with turquoise. White surf spreads along the edges of the boulders. From where I stand, it looks like sea and stone, dry land is a memory.  Some of the giant rocks are in a haphazard circle and have created small, protected swimming holes delineated from the larger sea.  I can see three people in one of the swimming holes. From where I stand, their bodies are small as dust.
I hold on to the balcony railing, afraid I will somehow fall off and into the water.  My knuckles are pale and my hands dig into the blunt edges of the metal bars.  It seems like the entire complex is tipping, like at any moment my feet might come off the ground and only my grip can protect me from flipping out and crashing into the rocky water below.

Zipolite

My body is cradled in the strong nylon grip of an old hammock. The purple, blue and red material is faded from the incessant heat and mild salty air, the colors remind me of old beach towels left in the far corners of a linen closet, but the lack of rainbow brilliance is compensated in the tight weaving of the thread, an iron grip which for me, on a wooden platform fifteen feet above the sandy beach below, feels as secure as the cradle of a mother’s arms.
The ocean, no more than two hundred feet away, is calm and dark blue. Rhythmic waves less than hips height, roll in on shore, creating a calming, constant roar on an otherwise quiet beach. In the distance, I can see the silhouettes of a couple, a slim woman in a small bikini, a tanned man in long swim shorts. They are too far away to see any of their features or to hear their conversation or laughter. They walk away from me, their shapes mostly darkened as the sun creeps slowly downward in the sky. They are the only people I see, the only moving shapes besides the blue water stretched out like an open, living canvas in front of me.
A gentle warm wind sways the hammock, and my naked body within it from side to side. Above me is a thin roof which blocks out the direct rays of the sun, but does little to stop the incessant heat which rises from the bright white sand fifteen feet below. The hammock is but one in a row of fifteen which hang suspended from the wooden rooftop. Towards my right, I see the long, single row of one-room cabanas, the wooden platform that stretches the entire length, the rooftop above that shades the platform and hammocks. Each cabana is raised fifteen feet from the ground, a handmade wooden ladder extending from just outside each cabana door to the sand below. Swaying in the breeze, I cannot tell if the beach is prone to flooding or it was just built to give a clear view of the entire beach, a long cove etched between a series of two cliffs that are about a mile apart.
The other cabanas and the other worn hammocks hanging from the overhanging roof are empty. The unfilled carcasses of faded nylon sway slightly in the breeze, moving as gently as the one I rest in, a crisscross pattern etching itself into my slightly tanned white flesh.
Resting high above the sand, I can see both ends of the beach lined with old hotels and cabanas, all looking like relics from another era. Almost all of them are vacant now as the rainy season approaches. The waves roll in to shore, their roar is the only sound.

Artificial Ocean

Water surrounds me. I am chest deep in a place that is neither a pool, nor the great wide ocean. It is something in between. Wild, gently rippling water encased in cement walls far away, so far as to give the illusion of “nature,” though I sense some calculated design. The water’s surface is mostly flat, rippling like an almost-still lake, it’s water line punctuated only by several dozen people and sparse tall boulders that sprout from the floor of sand. On my face is a plastic snorkel mask, in my mouth is the breathing tube connecting me to the world of mammals.
My face stays below the water’s surface and I survey the world below. The water is almost clear, each handful is clear as glass, but all added together, contained as it is, it has a tinge of blue. I feel the warmth of the sun overhead, a strong yellow sun that seems so close I could grab it. The blue sky weighs on my shoulders like a roof, like something firm and heavy stands just a few feet away, peering over me like a mother’s watchful eye. It is oppressive and near, and I keep my head below the surface, shying away from its presence.
With a full breath in my lungs, I move slowly through the water, moving my arms and legs gently, as slowly as possible, trying my best not to disturb the water and the layer of soft white sand by my feet. As I paddle and move my arms through the liquid, I look down at the wide-faced flowers growing on corkscrew stems from the white sand floor. The flowers are round, the size of large dinner platters with deep centers and three protruding yellow stamens. The petals look like silk in the water, so thin and soft and shimmering slightly. Most of them are a fire engine red, but sprinkled among the thicket are bright yellow blooms.
I move slowly through the water, careful not to disrupt the sandy floor, very aware of my space in the world. Close by are other people in bathing suits. I can hear them squealing in delight as they splash in the water, swimming as though they haven’t seen the white ocean floor or the red and yellow flowers. Their movements create water ripples and send white sand storms below the surface. I wait patiently and watch as the sand floats back to the bottom, calm once again. I watch the flowers until I hear another shriek and another flurry of sand clouds my vision.

The Wet Mountain

There is a rocky mountainside, covered halfway up in stones the size of human heads. All the boulders are dark gray and cold and slightly wet. The mountain is wide and tall, but it connects to an even larger mountain range to the north. In the distance, the mountains are brown and barren and covered only in scattered patches of dry grass. The sun is hiding somewhere behind a thick haze of clouds. The light is still very bright, the kind of light that requires squinting. The day seems new, but slightly drained in energy, as though something very intense has just vanished and what remains is slightly diminished. At the base of the mountain range is a receding sea. The water is dark blue and choppy with white caps. It flows out towards the horizon in a hurry, as though something was waiting for it beyond the thin line of sight. The wide mountain is mostly covered in heavy rocks, but as the mound moves closer to a tip, the rocks become smaller and smaller, until they are just small pebbles hidden between blades of dried grass. There is one four foot trail that travels the length of earth from peak to ocean, but there are other scattered trails that are much thinner, only wide enough for one person at a time. Close to the shore is a thicket of trees beside a clearing thirty feet wide. They are as tall and thin as eucalyptus, only they have darker and wider leaves and more full reaching boughs that create a wide canopy. The clearing is smooth and flat and free of all rocks. Because of the trees, it is covered in a nearly green-black shade. The earth here is damp and smells of wet bark. To the left of the clearing and trees is a grouping of dark wood condominiums. The singular structure is angular and modern and would give off a very cold emotion if not for the wood used to construct it. The collection of two-story houses each have double pane windows and wide sliding glass doorways that face the seashore and the thicket of trees. On the lower floor, beside a sliding glass door, is a dead white horse laying on the ground. Its legs are curled close to its body in the fetal position. The glass doors reveal the occupants of the houses. There are people. They are swollen and pale and laying on their backs on the damp linoleum of their kitchens. Their bodies are moist, as are the T-shirts and shorts which clothe their bloated bodies.

Mural of Ships

The sun beats down on the roof of the car, not a cloud disrupts the clear line from the fiery orb to the thin metal plate. The heat is not blocked by the overhead covering, but is instead filtered and absorbed by the car, making both the interior and exterior painful to the touch. The hot red car is in the single lane, behind it five lanes of cars are attempting to merge into the single lane, but no one is moving. There is a young woman in the passenger seat, both her feet are in the driver’s foot area, ready to accelerate or brake when necessary. A twelve year old girl is sitting in the driver’s seat. She is slightly portly, wearing glasses that make her eyes look glassy and magnified and slightly disfigured. The fabric covered backseat is empty of possessions or people, it is slightly more shaded than the front and a degree cooler. Waves of exhaust shimmy from the asphalt and rise above the vibrating back fenders of the idling cars. The motors of many cars are purring, but the surroundings are silent. There are no impatient horns, no children on the side of the road selling candy or sliced fruit. Just the lanes of cars, waiting patiently to reach the unknown that lays ahead. There are buildings on either side of the car. Some are short and made of wood, others tall and made of metal and glass, some are covered in stucco, some have crumbling sides. There is not a space in between then, they all share a wall. No matter how high or how low they rise, the buildings on the left side of the car are covered in a continuous mural. The oversized picture, spanning miles and raised thirty feet off the ground, depicts large wooden ships. They ride the waves, one after the other, clustered like an army of marching soldiers. The ships are pointed in the same direction as the waiting cars. Some ships have pink hulls and magenta ropes hanging from their masts, an intangible wind catches sails of pink and white lace. There are other ships painted in blue and green, others are black. One ship after another sails, painted in solemn colors or bright as rainbows. The ships are crowded together, ocean waves poke out occasionally from the massed hulls, but mostly, the ocean blue is buried beneath their weight and color. On the right side of the car, the buildings remain in their unadorned gray state.

Tour Ship

The ship is very large and composed of a string of connected cabins. There is little space out on deck, just a narrow walkway around the cabins. The plank boards are a dingy sandy blonde with stark white rails to keep them company and prevent passengers from falling overboard. The white paint is chipped and flaking off of the metal. Little wooden gangways lead from the dock onto the ship and crowds of people are streaming up and into the series of cabins.
Inside, a loud voice booms to the crowd already milling within the ships secretive insides. It is carried over a loud speaker and supplies concise little packets of trivial fact, directing the crowd’s attention to one or another aquarium, or that wall, or offering a historic or scientific anecdote.
The people are mostly older, anywhere from their late thirties to mid fifties. The men and women tend to be dressed alike, each wearing brightly colored polo shirts and khaki shorts or pleated slacks. The main difference is that the men are balding at the crest and their hair is white or gray while the women sport short haircuts full of unnatural curl and color. The women also wear bright lipstick and pearls or gold chains to add a touch of wasted femininity to their masculine couture. Both sexes tend to wear sun visors or other hats and carry little brochures and maps in their wrinkling, sun spotted hands.
They look where the voice tells them to look, nodding their heads and murmuring enthusiastically to one another. Many of them talk quite loudly, carrying on unrelated conversations about hotels, restaurants, or family members between moments of placing their attention where directed. Their feet shuffle along, carrying them where the voice suggests as if they were being moved along on a conveyor belt while their heads look at this and that and each other.
The various aquariums emit an eerie glow. The waving shimmer of light reflected off of the water dances upon the white walls of the cabin. There is otherwise nothing to be seen, except the occasional life saver mounted to a white wall. Nonetheless, the voice directs them to look, telling them what is in here and what is in there and where it came from and who discovered it and how long it lives and how it reproduces and who the captain of the ship was between the years of… and where it has traveled, and how it was named, and who has graced its decks with their shoe polish and so on. All the while, the crowd is responding to what they are told that they see. They snake their way from one room to the next to gaze into empty picture frames and exclaim things like,
“Oh Ralph, Nadia should have come! She would have liked this don’t you think? Maybe we can pick something up for her in the gift shop.”
Among the crowd, there are a few unruly children, also dressed in the classic polo shirts and khakis. They fight and play with their siblings and are ushered through the ship, one with the moving mass of humanity without taking notice of it or otherwise heeding their surroundings. There is an exit that allows a steady stream of homogeneous people to flow out of the string of cabins and across a second gangway. Just before crossing the threshold out of the cabin and onto the deck, they make their way through turn stiles with gleaming silver arms that let each patron push their tummy against a bar and get popped out on the deck as the following bar clicks into place behind them. They are especially merry as they emerge into the sunshine on the deck, smiling with satisfaction as the turnstiles count their passing.

Halfway Submerged

I am submerged to my belly in the clear blue water of a tropical sea. The water is warm, ever inviting, yet cool enough to offer refreshment from the humid air. Further out to sea, close to the horizon, the ocean is an angry, tumultuous black. The sun is absent, and the blue sky above is nearly covered in patches of bubbling gray and white clouds which are outlined in a deeper shade of black. The stillness of a tropical storm about to break is all around, pervading every sense and enveloping my skin and being with its presence. The air is still, sticky, sweet…and I stand, half in water, half in air, waiting in stillness as the looming presence of a greater force draws closer.
Below my feet is a watery floor made of countless rocks. Their culmination is a bed of speckled colors that move in an endless kaleidoscopic rearrangement within the continuous churning of eternal waves. There are small rocks mixed with others that are four times their size. At first glance, most are ordinary in shape and color, but on closer scrutiny, I see the variance in their details.
I see coral colored oval shaped rocks with black swirls, large circular stones with streaks of orange running through them. Small white ones with musical notes painted across the surface. There is a large grayish blue stone that has a small rectangular patch colored in the cubist designs of a Picasso painting. I stand, only a little ways from the shore which is made only of yellow sand. There, there are white plastic chairs that nearly cover the beach, some chairs are decorated with the red and yellow motif of the local beer. Tourists move like shadowed ants in the covered cafes that line the beach. They sip cold sodas and warm beer, they snack on chips and fried fish. There are old ladies that sit in the chairs closest to the sea, they rest with thick legs spread wide beneath their long skirts, watching the waves, quite content to sit silently and watch the stirring ocean.
Halfway submerged in water, I stand atop the rocks. The waves pull the stones up from their resting place and push them ferociously past my thighs and legs. After a short break of stillness, after all the stones have settled into their new place, another wave breaks ashore, pulling the stones out to sea again. After a short moment of newfound stillness, a wave pushes another batch of rocks past me towards the sand. I feel the pressure of their form as they brush past, but I feel neither pleasure or pain, just the simple weight of them as they tumble across my skin.

Hospital

The ocean sparkles a deep turquoise to the left of the highway. The tall white building rises into the empty blue sky to its right.
It appears to be a resort hotel. Poised with dignity and elegance it offers an awe striking view of the surrounding natural beauty. One jarring inconsistency. Instead of "Valet Parking", the red sign reads EMERGENCY SERVICES.
The cars in the parking lot are arranged neatly in their spaces. Little metal soldiers of red, yellow, blue, black, silver, and white, waiting for orders. The sparkling sun gleams off of their glossy frames and warms the clean black asphalt with its white painted lines. Little concrete lined islands are brimming with orange birds of paradise, red hibiscus, and squatty palms, their fronds spread out like green hands with long pointy tipped fingers.
The glass entrance doors slide open with a hiss. Red upholstered chairs, magazines on rectangular glass table tops with beveled edges, an empty half moon shaped reception desk. A sign over the wall mounted container of hand sanitizer reads: "For Your Convenience". No germs in this hospital.
No signs of life. No nurse. No doctor. No receptionist. Not even germs. Who owns the cars in their spaces?
Further down, beyond the abandoned reception area, a hall under construction. Yellow caution tape. Hand made arrows on children’s craft paper directing the detours. A solitary man in blue scrubs is buffing the dusty floor. His face is turned down to his work showcasing the bald crown of his head encircled by a ring of sparse black hair. A family, faces contorted by concern and bewilderment, moves hesitantly along the corridor. Trying to get to their dying loved one, they pause to look up at the incomprehensible overhead signs, lost in the echoing halls.
An elevator with steel doors. Passersby avoid getting into that elevator. Not now. Not here. It will not take them anywhere they would want to go.

Hanged Man

There is a roaring blue ocean that churns and roars like a thousand caged lions. Small waves peak and fall. Blue is everywhere, deep and dark, yet smooth as glass. Wind whips the waves like a sadistic lover, shaping cries of frothy white mist and gurgles of surging turquoise foam. Long tails of slick green seaweed undulate like thin dancers just below the surface. The smell on the wind is strong, the scent of moss covered mermaids and Neptunian life is heavy and thick, drifting for miles up the coast.
Sunlight beats down on the essential element, but despite its best efforts, the water remains cold. The shore is a thin strip of land 30 feet wide. It’s covered in small gray and black pebbles and an occasional black seashell. Seagulls rest on the warm rocks and every once in a while, a gull cry is heard. The rocky land ends at a dramatic cliff wall that rises from the sand at a 90 degree angle. Mostly made of sandstone, it glitters in the bright light and small flecks of coral colored sand sparkles.
The bluff above is covered in tall grasses. Long stalks of green, yellow and the various shades between them mingle on the unused land. The wind whips them as well, blowing them left, right…then pressing the blades hard against the earth. They dance endlessly in the constant display of wind power. From the sea, the land rises at a gentle slope towards the west. For each mile, the earth tilts another degree. Up and up it grows, the land remains a constant blanket of two-hued grass. Twenty miles from the water, the land comes to a peak. It is a soft hill, resembling the peak of a woman’s hipbone covered in soft flesh.
Upon the round hill is a structure. It is not a building exactly, there are no distinct walls, doors, or windows. There are levels, distinct floors created with the main building material, metal rods fashioned into large triangles. Each floor is made of 12 upside-down triangular pieces that create the structural base. It is wide, about a hundred feet in length and it continues beyond the limits of sight into the sky.
From the lowest level, a man hangs upside down by one bare foot. His toes are curled over the metallic rod that creates the base of the triangle. The toes of his right leg clutch the rod as the rest of his leg extends straight towards the earth. His left leg is bent and the knee and the bottom of his foot is pressed against his left inner right thigh. The palms of his hands are pressed together, over his heart. On his right wrist, is a black plastic bracelet. His arms are tan and the hairs adorning them have been bleached by the sun. He is young, perhaps twenty four at the most. Dirty blond dreadlocks are wrapped in a high bun atop his head. His feet are bare and tan, his toes dirty from his shoeless lifestyle. Threadbare tan pants are rolled up to his calves.
He hangs… quiet, alone. Above him, the structure looms with power. It appears transparent and empty, without walls or people. But that is only the surface image. The tower is teeming with hidden tunnels, living quarters and life.

Thirsty Sea Demon

Beyond the sliding glass doors, a rickety dock extends into the water like a wooden tongue thrust from the mouth of the little modular home to probe the briny blue. The rectangular frame of the house and its petite stature make it seem to be hardly more than a box of animal crackers perched precariously at the lip of a swimming pool made to churn by riotous children. Its paneling is light tan, the trim around the sliding glass door is white. The flat roof supplies a scant awning from which a few potted ferns and a spider plant dangle.
There is something of a small porch here, barely wide enough to accommodate a lawn chair composed of yellow and blue plaid vinyl lattice. Four wooden steps drop down from the porch and connect the house to the dock. The dock itself is dark with moisture, its many thick round barnacle covered legs reach down into the hidden green depths. Each plank is wide and riddled with Swiss cheese holes flanked by rusted iron bolt heads. The wood is interrupted by weathered lengths of thick double braided rope interlacing the planks. Along one side, an ancient mariner’s net hangs rotting like the veil of some gargantuan maritime witch. The wind whips wildly about, agitating the surf and setting a wind chime hung near the spider plant into an ecstatic frenzy of jangling.
The waves rock the old dock violently. Above their dark blue orgiastic rampage, high cloud cover darkens and creeps from horizon to shore at a snails pace, driving them increasingly into greater excitement. They grab at the little dock and rock it like the eager and ungovernable hands of a giant.
Out at the end of its length, a woman is balanced with her long legs poised in a wide sprawl. It is the caricatured stance of a cowboy in a standoff. The muscles of her calves, legs, and thighs work to keep her braced atop the dock. The white shorts she wears encapsulate and just barley conceal her tensed buttocks. Her canary colored open necked sweatshirt hangs from one shoulder, revealing the lines of the white racer tank top worn underneath.
In one hand, she holds a dark green corked bottle, raised outward as she shouts commandingly into the wind and at the wall of waves. With the free hand she gestures to six or seven terra cotta pots arranged in a semi circle around her at the docks end. Some of the pots are empty, while others contain only black soil and the withered remains of some long dead plant.
A few are home to sickly pale twists of Jade, made unhappy by their exposure to salty sea spray. They are of various shapes and sizes. Some are in perfect condition. Others are stained and chipped and bear painful long cracks in their sides. Her long blond hair ripples on the wily wind currents, hovering around her head like a flame atop a candle’s wick.
Before her, the waves are suspended, looming over her comparably delicate body and the rickety deck. They have almost assumed the shape of a body, trembling with agitation. With aqueous creature mouths they seem to grin maniacally, then grimace, pointed ears of water flattened back like the ears of an angry cat, while the rest of the surrounding sea continues to froth and churn violently. It wriggles in animated swirls of surf, cerulean laced with white foam, directed upward and held together by supernatural force. In this awkward state of suspended animation, it listens intently to the woman’s shouting, and thus restrained, it watches with anticipation, the whole of its attention captivated by the green bottle of wine and the definitive gesturing.

Two Islands

It is the light of early morning. Free of any trace of dawn, a crystalline brightness is in place. It is as if dawn had never been, and dusk will never be, and the overbearing presence of noonday sun is but a myth. The sky is an unimposing blue reflected perfectly in the water which holds two sandy isles interminably apart from any other land mass and teasingly separate from one another. They are so close that they are almost one, but the sea finds its way between them as the waves lap at their shores. As each group of waves rolls out to make way for the next, a narrow band of wet sand is exposed, the link between the twin islands. It is as if they hold hands under the water, keeping their bond in discretion. The water comes and goes between them. They accept its constant demand for attention, the way it tickles their extremities and holds them apparently apart. The sea water sparkles like liquid silver kissing their shores and flowing into little eddies. Its motion is gentle. Water creeps to shore in elliptical arms of foam and scattered sand and slips away again without commotion. It is quiet, making hardly a sound as it makes its rounds. Like a gentle breath it whispers in and out.
Ivory columns rise from the soft mounds of sand, the remains of a forgotten civilization. They look as smooth and creamy colored as if time and the elements have never touched them. There is no sign of weathering and yet walls are missing, blocks lay scattered in configurations that dance between the realms of chaos and symmetry, and columns lay in peaceful repose.
On the larger isle the ruins are mainly intact. Open aired temples slope slightly, as if one half of their structures are slowly sinking, being swallowed by the fawn colored grains of sand. Their floors are absent under those same hungry kernels. Nowhere is there a symbol, or sign, or statue to betray an origin. They stand plain and silent, void of explanation, free of personality. From the centermost structure every shore of the island is in plain view, no more than 30 feet away in any direction.
The smaller island is even more diminutive, hardly a sliver. It is placid host to a few fallen walls and two natural rock formations which lay sprawled like creatures from the deep come to lounge upon its scant surface. Dark gray and cool to the touch, these boulders have been shaped by the sea. They hold its precious deposits, tiny white shells embedded in their surfaces.
Silver foamed surf laps gingerly at a little pool that has collected near one of these inert bodies. The pool is filled with stones, each perfectly rounded by an eternal affair with sand and water. Some are of an earthy yellow hue, others as clear as glass. Polished by nature’s invisible hand, they are smooth and shiny. By some means, they have come to be stacked in the pool so that they form a lazy pyramid, sparkling under the water’s surface. The eye is drawn to them, the hand will yearn to touch. Their rarity and unassuming beauty lends them a value that far out reaches currency. Nothing is comparable. Like everything else here, there is nothing that they may be measured against, no sign of time or trend to define them.
The two islands cling to one another, without a past or future, holding their ageless ward; the alabaster ruins and its natural treasures, just above water level.

Three Women

Three women, myself included, are paddling on surfboards.

It is night inside a place that feels like a bio dome or some enormous enclosed space. The waters are black and we are making an escape… old white men with outdated methods and philosophies, men who teach at universities, are our detractors; we are trying to make a change and go somewhere new.

Then, in the middle of the ocean, my surfboard is pulled under, by what force it is unclear. I try to dog paddle as one of the women dives under to try and rescue it, but she comes back to the surface without it. They are both aware of my propensity for asthma attacks.

Then the other woman slides off her surfboard into the water, she pushes the board towards me and says "Go!! Go back to shore!"

As the two us ride away, and back in the direction we have come from, she tells us to "keep researching." She goes underwater, into an old telephone booth under the surface. In there she waits to drown and be devoured by all the sharks and various fish that are swimming nearby.

Evolution

The water is fairly shallow, it laps around my calves.
Before me is a cliff wall that curves out into a narrow peninsula. Both the cliff wall and the peninsula are composed of grayish rock.
There is no easy way out of the water which is calm and opens into the wide sea. The salty smell and feel of it is soothing. I look down into the greenish sparkle. To my relief it is clear enough to see my feet and the sandy bottom.
A strange sea creature swims in with the gentle current. It is an amazing Precambrian creature. Squid like tentacles extend out of its spiraling shell. They have a raw look, tender and coral red.
I watch in awe as its upper half begins to separate from the tentacles.
I am witnessing some eerie evolution, the birth of one creature from another.
My heart is deeply affected.
I feel tentative joy and the sorrow of sacrifice.