Broward County, Florida
July 1, 2015
The bad news has been really difficult to take.
From The Washington Post: The melting of Antarctica was already bad; and it just got worse.
In 2015, they’re now talking about East Antarctica.
Back in December 2014, the Post reported:
“A hundred years from now, humans may remember 2014 as the year that we first learned that we may have irreversibly destabilized the great ice sheet of West Antarctica, and thus set in motion more than 10 feet of sea level rise.
Meanwhile, 2015 could be the year of the double whammy — when we learned the same about one gigantic glacier of East Antarctica, which could set in motion roughly the same amount all over again.”
Since I left you last July (sorry for the delay), I cleared off my backlog of other writing projects, namely my novel Her Blue Watered Streets, begun in 2008, and helping Hollywood screenwriter Carlton Jordan complete the screenplay for my first book Ghetto Plainsman.
Now I can concentrate on Fear & Loving: Where Sea Level Meets the Deep – a literary blogstory, and since this is a 2 year blogstory, you’ve got me all the way through the end of 2016.
Where will you be at that time?
Where will we and the world be at that time?
What will have happened?
Writer’s block is an aggravating bitch, a dirty-tricks wrestling opponent. Restlessness, (too much) passion, emotion, depression, irritability, lack of focus, uncontainability, and personal life thangs all fight dirty against us writers to make us tap out with distraction.
I remember reading? hearing? that Hemingway would chain himself to his chair in Key West. Is that actually true? I don’t know now, but I get it.
I need to be captured by the mystery again…. Need to be pummeled, overwhelmed, consumed by the sea. I feel stuck at the surface. Teresa Baker, my fiery blacktivist friend in the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Area said “go to the source.”
Well, dammit, I did. I moved (thankfully) out of South Beach and am now up in Broward County just one block from the beach.
I can hear the ocean’s noise from my 5fth floor balcony, and the ocean looks bigger than we imagine standing on the sand.
Sometimes at night I look out and wonder what the hell is going on out there right at that moment, under that black sea.
From what I understand, I think this area isn’t overfished, meaning there should be lots of life out there.
Sometimes at night I can’t help myself and swim. (One armed – don’t ask – bad torn-muscles injury at the gym in March.) I don’t go too far out…. Just past where I can’t stand. That always makes me feel better – swimming, floating like that.
I will dolphin-dive then curve up right at the bottom, pressing my forehead then my chest into the underwater sand.
Sometimes at that moment I will think a quick prayer.
I keep my eyes closed but maybe I should open them.
What would I see in the dark? I just imagine the tumble of bubbles and arm-or-leg glimpses of my streamlining shape.
Though I probably don’t want to hear it, I’m becoming conscious of the fact I probably shouldn’t be swimming at night.
Sharks are most active feeding at dawn and dusk, and at night.
At night the secluded place I like to swim is sometimes visited by a fisherman or two who use long, sturdy fishing rods stuck into poles in the sand.
I had a dream recently that I was with my son in Texas and it was time to leave again, say goodbye, get on a plane. Can you believe he’s 17 years old now?
And then just like that he was gone, somewhere else with his mom.
And I was walking on the Galveston beach alone, where he and I spent a lot of his kid years.
I was timing everything just right to meet up with him one last time before I got on the plane.
A big wave, not a tsunami, just a big wave, one single wave, came up out of the calm sea diagonally and consumed everything.
I’ve lately been thinking that writer’s block equals the abandonment of hope. I can’t fuk with that. So let’s go.