Dearest liminality,
Screw you and thank you. What better way to see you then the Pacific Coast Highway of California from a car with no roof and no presence in the passenger seat. And there you were as were the wildflowers on the hills, as was the unseen but felt-invasiveness of the wind on the beach just north of Monterey. Tireless. Nosy.
I lied. My camera laid in the passenger seat, ready to capture you at any moment. A 35mm frame between you and I: precisely the way I would have it. Its the way you will never truly allow, though I appreciate how you entertained my veiled fantasy if even for a shutter.
To the right.. land. To the left.. air-meets-sky horizon. Inbetween? You and I tangle, tango, brawl, lick the roofs of each other’s mouths and most vividly, disagree.
Mementos of you.
I cry at the ocean, wiping the tears from my cheeks, tasting them off the back of my hand like a child. I taste what I see – salt. Unus mundus. Did I find home? Had I forgotten it? My flesh is land as my eyes are sea, my breath is air as my heart is surely fire, surely ash, too.
You. Indication of change, challenge. To be frank, as much as I value such things, I’ve posted guards in my sleep to stand at my doorways beneath the header which reads “only the familiar may enter.” Luckily, your nature is truly that of a good lover. I am drawn to you like a bee to a neon-orange poppy, out of my hive to your spaciousness, to your unpredictability, to how you waver in the breeze, and I cannot fight off such a curiosity which brews in me like coffee on a brisk morning.
There are pines so dense the sunlight does not peer through. Yet the tops of those trees know no shade. There you are again.
Dearest, liminality.
