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Holding hands with the wind
Jan. 29th, 2008 | 8:53 pm
I like feeling tiny.
On most days, I can accomplish it simply by wearing a big watch to make my wrist look petite. For years I
wore enormous shoes to make my ankles look small. I enjoy a big coat and long French cuffs. It's not
fashion. It's one of my "things."
I'm also obsessed with looking at my hands and watching my knuckes get larger every day. I don't know
why they're growing so prominent. I imagine that when I'm an old lady my hands will look like they've been
constructed from Tinkertoys. I show them to people, but they don't see.
And I do a "thing" with my jaw all day and all night that wears down my teeth in weird ways, resulting in
overly sensitive molars and quite painful chewing. It's become like breathing to me, this constant clenching
and clicking.
Then there's the restless legs, which I had no idea was actually a "thing" until I started seeing the
commercials. I thought that everyone felt the need to stretch their legs and feet and bend their toes all the
way back and then curl them every dozen seconds while laying in bed at night, praying for the sweet
release of sleep.
It's OK to ask for help, a doctor once told me. You don't have to pretend to be strong.
So I drive to Malibu: The Pacific is liquid Prozac.
It's the edge of the Western Hemisphere and the edge of the void. No, it IS the void. Standing on its foamy
lip, everything about me is insignificant. My mistakes mean nothing and I don't matter. I can be whoever I
want to be. I can rebuild: I am petite and graceful. I am beautiful and young and flawless.
I take in a breath and the air I use is not missed by anything or anyone. I walk down the beach and my
footprints are erased. No, God isn't carrying me. The size of my step is inconsequential. I'll never get
anywhere.
The Pacific doesn't care if you don't like it. It's not particularly peaceful, despite its name. The wind is so
constant and powerful that with your arms loosely by your side, it feels like someone is holding your hand.
It's unmappable. The deepest spot on earth is out there. Your own world is as far as you can see and
standing there, you're looking at a third of everyone else's world. It's so vast that you're lost and you don't
even know where you're lost. Remember the crew of The Indianapolis? Hundreds of men were
anonymous... an entire aircraft carrier lost to everyone but the local sharks for five days.
There's too much water and too much air and too much sound. The surf rolls and the gulls and harbor
seals bark together, a cluster of dark buoys bobbing in the waves fifty yards off shore like a group of surfers
waiting for their next ride.
You can't embrace it nor can you swim in it. It's too cold and the riptide will swallow you while you're tangled
in a forest of kelp. It's easy to despise it if you compare it to other oceans, but you can't because there aren't
any other oceans. Everything else is just a limb of the mighty Pacific.
It is the same whether you're in love or in hate or indifferent. As long as you understand it, it will understand
you. It's that friend you have to whom you can say anything, wear anything, do anything, be anything, and not
think for one moment, "This isn't right. I'm wrong." I close my hand into a fist and open it again, and the
wind takes hold.
I stand at the edge of the void. My knuckles don't look too big. I don't have BDD or TMJ or RLS. Little Dog
stands next to me, licking his nose and wondering why it's so salty.
I'm the crew of The Indianapolis, hanging on for one more day, and a little less brave.
And over the din of the seals, gulls, and surf, the wind is whirling and cooing: "It's OK. It's OK. It's OK."
Comments
Jan. 29th, 2008 | 8:53 pm
I like feeling tiny.
On most days, I can accomplish it simply by wearing a big watch to make my wrist look petite. For years I
wore enormous shoes to make my ankles look small. I enjoy a big coat and long French cuffs. It's not
fashion. It's one of my "things."
I'm also obsessed with looking at my hands and watching my knuckes get larger every day. I don't know
why they're growing so prominent. I imagine that when I'm an old lady my hands will look like they've been
constructed from Tinkertoys. I show them to people, but they don't see.
And I do a "thing" with my jaw all day and all night that wears down my teeth in weird ways, resulting in
overly sensitive molars and quite painful chewing. It's become like breathing to me, this constant clenching
and clicking.
Then there's the restless legs, which I had no idea was actually a "thing" until I started seeing the
commercials. I thought that everyone felt the need to stretch their legs and feet and bend their toes all the
way back and then curl them every dozen seconds while laying in bed at night, praying for the sweet
release of sleep.
It's OK to ask for help, a doctor once told me. You don't have to pretend to be strong.
So I drive to Malibu: The Pacific is liquid Prozac.
It's the edge of the Western Hemisphere and the edge of the void. No, it IS the void. Standing on its foamy
lip, everything about me is insignificant. My mistakes mean nothing and I don't matter. I can be whoever I
want to be. I can rebuild: I am petite and graceful. I am beautiful and young and flawless.
I take in a breath and the air I use is not missed by anything or anyone. I walk down the beach and my
footprints are erased. No, God isn't carrying me. The size of my step is inconsequential. I'll never get
anywhere.
The Pacific doesn't care if you don't like it. It's not particularly peaceful, despite its name. The wind is so
constant and powerful that with your arms loosely by your side, it feels like someone is holding your hand.
It's unmappable. The deepest spot on earth is out there. Your own world is as far as you can see and
standing there, you're looking at a third of everyone else's world. It's so vast that you're lost and you don't
even know where you're lost. Remember the crew of The Indianapolis? Hundreds of men were
anonymous... an entire aircraft carrier lost to everyone but the local sharks for five days.
There's too much water and too much air and too much sound. The surf rolls and the gulls and harbor
seals bark together, a cluster of dark buoys bobbing in the waves fifty yards off shore like a group of surfers
waiting for their next ride.
You can't embrace it nor can you swim in it. It's too cold and the riptide will swallow you while you're tangled
in a forest of kelp. It's easy to despise it if you compare it to other oceans, but you can't because there aren't
any other oceans. Everything else is just a limb of the mighty Pacific.
It is the same whether you're in love or in hate or indifferent. As long as you understand it, it will understand
you. It's that friend you have to whom you can say anything, wear anything, do anything, be anything, and not
think for one moment, "This isn't right. I'm wrong." I close my hand into a fist and open it again, and the
wind takes hold.
I stand at the edge of the void. My knuckles don't look too big. I don't have BDD or TMJ or RLS. Little Dog
stands next to me, licking his nose and wondering why it's so salty.
I'm the crew of The Indianapolis, hanging on for one more day, and a little less brave.
And over the din of the seals, gulls, and surf, the wind is whirling and cooing: "It's OK. It's OK. It's OK."
Comments
