a moment of pure bliss

It wasn’t something that I should have been surprised by. Yet, the feeling that washed over me as the rain pelted my Blackened Voodoo shirt and old Arizona State hat from the hurricane did.

It was a moment of pure bliss.

What made it that way, I started to consider. It wasn’t the soaking rain. It wasn’t the wind or the sand or the huge waves eating parts of the dunes like giant pieces of pecan pie.

No, it was the silence. It was the lack of movement. It was the aloneness.

As anyone who has ever lived at, or just spent time at, the beach knows -- people tend to be everywhere. Except when summer is over. That’s when everyone gets back to their hurried lives of buying things and watching shitty television. Of believing what the bloated heads on the cable news networks tell us. Taking comedians take on the news seriously. Of eating things that slowly kill us.

I’m guilty of many of those very same things. I don’t watch much TV anymore. Just what I download if something sounds remotely interesting. I try to read. But I make excuses not to a lot more than I used to. Which makes me feel sad. I have bought 1,000s of books over the years. I used to say they were my gift to myself at retirement. All the good and bad writers. From Hemingway to some guy who wrote pulp novels in the 40s.

The collection has been chopped up over the years. Just like me. Some stayed in New Orleans, probably drowning in Katrina mold. Some stayed in Florida. Probably settling into a landfill about now. Still others were left behind in apartments and houses in Arizona, Alabama, Virginia and North Carolina. Left to be found by the next person, and hopefully enjoyed, but most likely tossed into a plastic garbage bag to be semi-preserved in a dump.

It’s what happens to all of us anyway, right? We’re preserved and stuck in an airtight metal box with 1,000s of other dead souls. Why anyone would want to be buried is something I can’t comprehend. If the soul lives on, does it want to be stuck in a box? Will it get out before all the chemicals are put in? And what if we’re just supposed to die and rot? Become part of the food chain.

That’s always intrigued me. Becoming part of the food chain. The chain is pretty broken right now. Smashed into obedience by large corporations. But hey, I’d love to think that one day some fat idiot in Long John Silvers is eating a part of me. So I can course through his meaty, sweaty ass-funk smelling body and poke at his liver till he drops.

Yeah, that’s kind of awful. But it’s true, like everything is frightening.

My wish is to be tossed into the ocean, so the fish and sharks and whales and little organisms can just chomp on me. Then, those fish or whales or sharks will be eaten by other, bigger fish, whales and sharks. Eventually, they’ll bite the wrong hook or swim into a net and end up on a dinner plate. Wouldn’t that be nice?

But back to the aloneness.

When I first arrived here, everything was slower. There were not a lot of people around and it was agreeable. I was able to walk on the beach in the morning or late at night, never seeing a soul. In the afternoons, there would be a few, but not too many. Mostly book readers and shell scoopers.

Then came Memorial Day. Still the worst day here, in my opinion.

The people came in waves. Much like yesterday’s hurricane. Just people, cars, dogs, babies, bikes, and anything else.

Plus, drunken marines.

The aftermath was a wasteland of garbage and crap. Chairs bought hours before were mangled and thrown away. Beer cans and bottles dotted the roadsides and the beach. And then there were the cigarette butts. If anyone tells you people don’t smoke anymore, come to the beaches here. Butts everywhere left behind by asses.

So, as I walked alone in the streets, pelted by rain drops and random flying things, I realized how awesome it is to be here.

When they’re not here.

Am I a misanthrope? These thoughts pop into my head.

Do I hate people?

Nah, things just seem better when they’re not around.

Until you find yourself painfully alone too much of the time. And then you sit on your porch watching, looking for a way to connect. Walking amongst the hordes, once again trying to find a way to connect. Drinking from a bottle, thinking maybe it will provide the strength, the courage to reach out.

It happens so rarely. But when it does, you remember being the guy walking down the street alone in the rain really isn’t so fun…