Journey to the Docks: A Momentous Self

Journey to the Docks: A Momentous Self

Laws can never be enforced unless fear supports them. –Sophocles, Ajax, c. 450.

Looking out onto South Harbor Front Park sat fifteen boats stationed on carrier trailers. Some had a better view than others – some were covered with canvases of forest green and silver. Among them were Fairward Skylark and Good G'reef, whose owner had posted a for sale sign on her starboard bow. Outside the rescue station sat Vakta and, across from her, a number of land-bound trawlers: Tanno Dayne, Lady Roberta, Ruby E., and Kerry-Ann.

The beach backed onto Barney Thomas Drive, which was more of a back-lane than a drive in the winter. At that time of year there were only two groups of people who drove down Barney Thomas Drive – and the other group was homeowners. Tire tracks ran in two directions: ahead and straight, and left, into driveways (look right and, contrasting the warm interior lights of the homes on the left, is the only color offsetting a sea of white, that of an old bench and, a little further from it, a picnic table: peacock blue – painted probably in the summer, probably under a baby blue sky). There was no telling where the beach ended and the water began. The only face, a sign with arrows pointing left and right. And it read North/South Beach.

South Beach

Emerge and see roars of laughter. Quick! Pick up some peach chardonnay on the way home and tell me all about them, your disasters. Your wins and losses, your regrets and turnarounds, your peeping Toms and good time Charlies. This is just an exercise for your amusement alone. We're breaking bread, that's all. Making amends. Her smile and warmth nearly brought a tear to my eye tonight. Do you know why? Because I know I'll never have to underline a single word. That alone makes me happy, happier than I've been in a long time. There's nothing unmanageable (stop) about what I'm saying. There are however things that for lack of imagination remain unimaginable and (no) this is my reply; not a calculated defense, a reply. Checking out of institutions was never my strong point so you'll have to be patient because I never quite know where to put a comma, it just shows up. Like an audition. Hold still and let me examine you.

First, data: In what year were you born? Certain tensions arise when I start probing for information so let's forget about data. It's the furniture in your living room that interests me, that and the kind of art you collect. I may not know your name, but I am interested in your art collection. Since we all come from someplace, the questions I'd like to ask, in truth, are questions concerning your style and taste, since this is what actually sets us apart from one another. What I know of you is that you're very good at concealing the truth, that and elevating what you believe to be the truth of others, but never at your own expense, and this you hold up as your trophy. So do you stand with the refrigerator door open and eat cottage cheese out of the container with a fork? And what do you do with pictures you no longer like, ones that remind you of things you'd rather forget? Yes, like those. How do you do? I suppose by now you want to know something about me. But you know all you need to. Or maybe you know about a certain turning point and maybe that's all you'll ever know: Watching someone break down is always a spectacle – scenes from our favorite movies.

There must be wind: I hear chimes. Your expectations are too big and my hands, too small. You've poked your head out the window enough times to know that description isn't what you're here for. I'm not going to tell you what to see in the clouds. I'm wearing the same eyeliner today that I put on yesterday. I don't look nearly as nice as I did yesterday. As children we often hear the word "nice," yet the same word is inexcusable in essays. You either have to apply yourself or – my hands are too weak, I can't pick up a thesaurus, and I haven't been outside today. So let me be your distraction.