Yesterday I spoiled myself on a run on the rocks, like the two days before and today. 8 years ago I was nearly paralysed by pain in my right leg. I was operated on my back and between L4-L5 a cyst was removed. Sitting hours on end causes both my legs to ache in similar fashion, therefore I work out my legs on the rocks.
I hooked my dictaphone into my scarf to be close to my issue of observation and to shield the microphone from the howl of the winds. Below is a scatter of thoughts, not necessarily coherent, but illustrative of conditions applying.
I do not exclude the possibility that on the meadow I am watched day and night by dolphins.
‘Potje met vet’ (whistling an antique school outing tune)
After crossing the wet meadow, along the ruin of the mad widow I climb a grey shadow to the ocean window. First I wipe the soles of my sneakers dry on an absorbent flat rock in order not to transmit moisture to potentially slippery surfaces.
When you are walking the rocks, you might wear gloves, although it may be good to be reminded how sharp they are, and how hard.
Two flat slabs of terrace both opposing each other under a steep angle are to be walked on either side, balance checked by my weight in the middle.
Going down is so much harder than going up, as I have my back to the rocks, reduced command about handhold and my eyes are further away from my feet than from my hands.
Long live the barnacles, as they secure my foothold.
The tide is still coming in, so I need to take a wider dry-feet margin.
I climb on the throne stone shift on to my sit bone, all alone, but for my dictaphone I talk to the surf drone.
Would love to sculpt this stone into a regular sovereign seat.
Can’t trust my hands too much. Many a surface has washed out hollows broken down, so limestone thorns and edges, sharp as knives do not provide reliable handhold. Therefore I focus my attention on my feet.
Yesterday I erected a metre of washed up, bore mussel devoured tree trunk between some loose rocks. It is a monument, dedicated to a hero of mine and an anti-hero: John Lennon: ‘They are standing still’ (Number nine, White album) and Elton John: ‘I’m still standing’. Its knots overlook all directions.
I found a breach among the thrown up herds of terrace debris. A lee of the wind, mostly flat with a strand of sand in the middle. An angled flat rock to shelter from rain. There is the peculiar atmosphere of holy ground, where angels dare to tread. I would not even be surprised if, when I lift a stone, a blockbuster slowly rolls to the side giving access to a cave system formerly inhabited by proto historic man.
I find the petrified fossil of a little fish, minutely preserved in the finest detail. Next time gonna brush it up and capture it on photo.
Plants grow under water that stitch to the stones. Their grave markings are abundant as white dots and slurs, eaten in by chemical attack. I place my bet on hydrochloric acid, and a runner up on lithium.
Treacherous land with blueberry strands, grass covering the knee-deep and wobbly loose rocks.
Back to solid.
Wrung a floater out of rock jaw, just to bang it back again. One fine day I will retrieve it, immobilise it on a crevice so I have a local seat.
50 feet down below the ocean quarrels&gnarls in a squared out cove, one misstep and I won’t arrive alive.
Melodramic whistle concerto on the very corner before Gulf Bridie.
On my easy return I saw a prehistoric plastic bottle decomposing at the side of the road.
All this ivy, climbing for free!
When we used to play like we used to,
we did what we’ve done in a poopflue.
We rocked and we rolled until we hyperboled,
and now we have no more to accrue due.
That little thing wrapped it up. I may grow to like this, never thus done before, notes yes, plenty, but not gained by soliloquy.
So far my serial worder. Go now, bearer of this tiding and loosen my tongue from this device.