top of page

Sea Change

AND NOW for the next item on our list:

a whistle-clean nineteen-twenties motorcar, brand-new, off whose gleaming countertop light slides like moonshine—lambent, the reflection of teeth in a store window: value for thought. THINGS ARE CHANGING. Things are changing: waves are rising crested with adamantium, heaving tsunami roars, they are proving that a wave is a wave is a wave is a raindrop and also the whole ocean. That a wave is the sea in motion and does not lie down, unless asked with a pat of the hand, flattered, soothed, petted, to part and peal open for any counterfeit Moses.

In fact the crashing crush of silver-lined waverush is left nameless, just as the female bliss. It is a mystery borne from fear.

Ben Waters / Storm Tossed

Although some great lakes (blue-feathered Como; the ancient clan of placid rivers) cling to their names, cosied up to concrete drams: they are subsumed in their labeling fury, stuck with sticky notes and lacquered nails to the tail of a Latin sort of dignity. (A wave repeats itself; a wave's fold is not surrender.) Under the guise of civility, Isola Bella will pin to the chiseled stone its whole array of butterflies, robust hydrangeas, nerium oleander shrinking, envying our European laurels their pale and poisonous beauty: how do they compare to the orgastic feast?

With his fist

he broke a large mirror; anger cracked liked a whip, unsubstantiated—in

one blow— the defeat of all things that shatter, brittle crystals, mole mounds, church turrets and ziggurats; no coats of rare shrinking flowers, rather

bones— more things which like beauty do not bear to be reassembled, sellotape-stuck, soothingly churned back to health, only put away

for lack of comparison when more things are made in their image. Isabella I'll take for a swing; dancing through the rubble compares to the whip-lash of hard seascapes against the mountaintops, cracking with a lover's slap —bam!—, scratching the coast's red beard, eating dust until its song is hoarse: things, calls the wave, we sell



The climb is paramount so priciest, although we imagine you will enjoy being dizzied, washed flushed lilac by the stone-breathing air;

wilderness being always the sea in hiding.

bottom of page