a thrilling mound

we dug our hands into soft sand – fire-beach children. my son’s pudgy fingers pressing at the earth, my fingers dancing around shells/pockets full of waves and sunken bits of salt-treasure. we made a mound – a simple mound/a thrilling mound. decadent with shell bits, ornate with pearlescent rocks – simple colors/magnetic cream and golden hue – something found, something borrowed, something blue and black and hollow. a shell, a whisper/a flagpole at the top of a tower. a firmament – a creation – a castle – a mound – a pile of wet sand/a toddler. a dream afternoon – silence, the splash of the tide, the concoction of clouds in the sky – curdling into a late afternoon storm. gathering, gathering. the sky is gathering. our hands our gathering. sandrain, we dream a wish moment. we build the captain of this ship – a tiny sliver of shell. a broken home washed up on the shore. we gather, we gather. we dig our hands in. we wash with the waves. we wave with the current. we sit in the silence – in the crash – in the din – in the storm-gather. we are a pair of sand-children, we are a pair of silent eyes creating a thrilling mound. and watching it get washed back out to sunken bits of salt-treasure.

The autumn I learned how to paint, I was 17 and dazzled with discovery. I would thrill myself with the finality of the paintbrush – the still of the art room – the metallic stench of acrylics. I would rush home, dazed from hours of paint fumes and lay under the leaves, close my eyes and imagine painting the canopy above me. I was consumed to my bones with the delight of discovery. I could not get enough. I painted everything I could find. I knew I wasn’t a master – but I had an appetite. I had joy. I had a love affair with the discovery of a new art. I painted chairs, I painted pieces of wood I found. I delighted in watching colors talk to one another. Jangle next to each other, blend, mend, become one. Become something wholly new. Entropy. Ecstasy. I felt wild in my own skin.

Above all things, I wish for that – I wish for that for all people. The thrill of satisfaction. Discovery, joy, empowerment, creation, wonder, fascination, passion. An affair with creativity. With what you can create with your strange body and your magnificent mind and the things around you. That is wildly attractive to me.

And if I’m being completely honest, I’ve still got love stories stuck in my veins – like a chronic illness, I can’t seem to beat it.
I’ve gotten better at reclaiming my own life though. My own time. My own architecture. The rhythm of my story and the sound of my own narrative. My life as a creator, that will always fulfill me. Profoundly – if I am thrilled with discovery. More than any other type of classical “success” (which is all bullshit, honestly) – I seek only that lustful discovery. That lust for life. That thrill in discovery, in fulfillment, in creation. And a creative partner, then. Someone who sees, recognizes. Walks towards the strangeness with me with consciousness, wonder and a lust for life. And a sense of their own story. Of the beauty of a narrative unfolding. And the way two stories clink together like music.