In the beginning, water submerged us all in her belly, a salty uterine bliss that shocked us to life upon expulsion.
Splat.
Right onto dry earth.
***
We, ever resilient (because life seeks only to live), flourished and the ocean looked upon us proudly – but fearfully – as we moved farther from the shore. She began to murmur the stories of her offspring in a dull roar, one by one, to remind herself. Our population soared (because life seeks only to live) and her stories grew short, the mnemonic devices of eternity.
John Schmidt, born May 3, 1926. Christened on May 3, 1926. Died winter 1977.
Mary Lockhart, born November 24, 2020. Died December 2067.
The ocean mother did not worry that she overlooked the most important moments of our lives. Most of us did as well.
***
She dreams of cities only to destroy them upon awakening. In her dream, Santa Cruz and Los Angeles had a one-night stand only to be surprised by the consequence: a double-headed progeny that came to be known as Santa Monica and Venice.
Santa Monica became the more well-adjusted sibling, artistic and constrained. She adorned herself with clean cafes and gentle retail stores. She baffled her parents with her togetherness, her quaintness, her absolute professionalism.
Venice took a little from both parents and exulted their idiosyncrasies. With home-free freedom, he embraced muraled RVs and homeless hipsters, extending his arms outward to the ocean.
***
Together, the siblings create a place where tie-dyed shirts and used books are sold next to skateboards and spiked leather bracelets. Where the siblings touch, counterculture morphs into pop culture. Where they meet, a dream hangs in limbo.
John Jenkins posts his painstakingly bright sign along the bike path and lures tourists to his table. His sign reads: The Healer * Chakras * Stress * Palm Reader. He wears a purple sweater vest that somehow matches his eyes.
Jimi Hendrix skates by wearing a turban and a sun visor. He plays electric guitar through a speaker hidden in one of the multiple bags that hang dangerously close to his roller skates.
Anita Redding reads tarot cards Past * Present * Future. She cackles loudly in a thick southern accent, proclaiming her powers over nature to passersby.
Stan Statton performs handwriting analysis from a black velvet podium. He paces as he waits for clients, holds tight to his walking stick capped by a wizard’s crystal. He wears a shimmering gold jacket and sweats profusely, a necessary sacrifice in sorcery.
Santa Claus rides by on a bike, his bushy beard glowing under his rosy cheeks. Thick dread locks concealed under a red and white Rasta cap, he pedals through the crowd, jolly at his disguise.
***
A punk girl with a ring in her nose saunters by, her head shaved clean save for a dual strip of hair beginning at a point at the back of her head and extending to two points above her eyeballs. She wears ripped fishnets underneath black shorts. She walks toward the ocean and stops suddenly, epiphany lighting her eyes. She turns to one of the vendors and says, “I’ve dreamed of this exact spot all my life. That tree, those flowers. I’ve been here before. It’s home.”
Nearby, a woman no longer young but not yet old scribbles down notes from the park grass. She too has had such dreams, but does not yet know where they go. She finds herself envious of the girl who has found this place, because she knows she will continue to chase the phantom places and people of dreams, whether they exist or not (because life seeks only to live).
BB
