The apartment was so lonely and deprived of anything soulful that I became more depressed with every passing minute. But I knew what I could be done, so with firm resolve I changed. The studio was dry and hopeless, and I was cold...and I knew I would only get colder.
I spent the afternoon contending with grey waves and a grey sky, with great forces, battling. Boogie-boarding. It's an interesting and fierce occupation. Yarden pointed out that if I have faced the waves with the right attitude, then I have merged with their greatness. We must not forget that merging is becoming.
The more time I spend in the ocean, the more I become like the ocean: strong, rolling, subtle, opaque, clear, fresh, living, fearless, timeless. How is it that every time I go, that thing is always waiting in there?--That. And when I emerge its tentacles have found their way into the deepest crevices of my soul, so that my eyes see differently, and my breath is more like the sighing of wind, and this body is only more simple-- simply beautiful, like a shell, or a stone on the shore.
That spirit which holds me, what should be its name? No...I won't say any name, lest it lose its power. Better to forget all about it--clever men may attempt to bottle it and sell it in recycled gift wrap.