Dolphin Address 48
December 14th 2005
Though it seems a mere formality I keep insisting on spending the night on the meadow. Most of the day and evening I'm up in the WaterWing Research and Development Centre and my nightly move 'only' serves me to wake up to a new day in the too subtle and delicate pastels to picture. Fortunately no technology can match human appreciation, so every morning I just love to open my eyes to the light, brushing colour into the slopes of Fanore.
But my true magic lights hidden in the waves. This morning a huge swell was feasting its arrival on the grim black fangs of rock protrusions in a whiter shade of pale with a shimmer of ground emerald underneath. Seagulls skimming the surface I lose sight of when they dip between the massive heaves of water.
Last night, however, another revelation welcomed me on trucking down to the meadow. The sky was very clear and a frosty bite was hanging knee-low above the ground. The moon was not yet full, but shed an enchanting silkie tissue on the waters to pick up for anyone who cared. While I drove my bed down the Muddy Lane I opened to the intensity of shine. It laid like waiting to get scooped up by my hungry eyes.
After shutting down the motor I sought a careful trail along the shiny rocks to get close enough to the water to catch the direct reflection of the moon.
The dark gave way to full screen imagination while the moon plunged its light deep underneath the waves. There seemed to be a source there, a victory of light overpowering darkness. I could see no waves, no patterns of transport, only movement, like a living organism of restless, ever changing light.
The closer to the shore, the rougher the break of the black light. In between golden flashes lit up for a split second. Lack of articulation moved the masses in a vast pervasion of thrown energy towards the blind rocks.
It is not hard to imagine voices in the breath of the ocean, particularly where it meets with the rock. It's all there, from a murmur to a shout, from the whispered promises of love complete to the lament of ancient people losing life. You tune your ear to what you chose to hear. Beats the remote.
Jan Ploeg, Meadow Fanore, December 14th 2005
print version