OKAY WITHOUT THE SEA

A long path that meandered was before us. Half open to the handsome and curt and sure and sturdy suburban roads. Inside of them and about them were byways and hidden parts of more streets, more boulevards, avenues, crescents, et al. Some interesting architecture, splashes of wood built in with stone. Greenery, large windows, high, vertical, and sometimes smaller ones. The sun shone down in late afternoon and cascaded off bits of water and the water looked then like shards of glass. There were exotic and unknown plants,- foiled, juxtaposed as what they were,- stems, leaves, buds,- by the light blue sky with odd clouds together in places and then just blue and blue and blue…

 

The path. It goes like a snake, - a long asphalt snake fallen and flattened from somewhere. I think of how different that world is than the sea of Conrad, - the men in turmoil after the ship has been almost overtaken by water. Then the ship and the morning and the men’s spirits slowly, slowly raise themselves up again like a phoenix, like an awakened flower, like the sun itself. The whole area is quiet, a bit hot, - and only now and then a bit of a breeze comes. It has not rained, - and there is no salt air for there is no sea. But it all has its own quiet charm. Dogs, us, some people, - the slow sound of the odd vehicle up the way, - insects and bees and ducks and other.

There is a long wooden and steel bridge. Under it the water is too still. I wish that the water

flowed, as if in overflow from some series of summer storms. We are sometimes thick with stillness, too thick. Conrad would not like it there, though it was beautiful at moments. I think he would wonder where the drama was, and not find it in the floating duck, the working bee, the silent old Oak or the settled and content passersby. There is really no shop, no wares, and no people calling out across the busy vibrant afternoon air. No.

But there is the path still, and the bridge sits over it dutifully. The ducks are fine with that. And the flower and shrub, feral but standing and growing in accordance with their own logic, - are a bit of life under the late afternoon star. It’s a build up of little roads with the fresh cut lawns, bungalows, little signs demarcating this or that. A little over-civilized, quite safe, and even sleepy. Yet look upon the bird, black and red winged,- cutting through the air in a bee-line,- confident, agile, spry, cool-headed and distinct. 

He will be okay without the sea.

He shall have to be.

--------------------------------------