Every beach has a name; every
mountain, every ocean. Every lake and river. A mountain fuels this river that
empties into the sea. The river carries sand and the sea carries sand and I
stand on a beach that is their collaboration. The beach has a name.
I watch waves. The waves built this beach and break it down and define this
ocean that relieves the river that relieves some mountain lake a long way away.
The ocean, the beach, the river the lake the mountain: They all have names.
The waves have no names. You might say they are too short lived but you are
wrong. They have crossed time to arrive here. Waves: The rules of attraction
between Earth and her Moon. They carry no water. They have traveled further
than mariners, each of whom had a name.
These waves have no names. They cry like sheep in the feedlot, alive, anonymous,
doomed. They mate with sand and die at your feet, bleeding. There are too
many, you tell yourself. There are too many waves to name.
Waves allow you a certain intimacy with the moon and weather you won't meet
until tomorrow. Waves are like clouds you tell yourself. Clouds and waves have
Not quite says the waves. Each cloud has the potential to become
something greater. When greater, they are named. They are named so you will
remember them. They are named so you know how to refer to your fear. But waves,
we sing to you and build so many of your very favorite things, but even those of
us that rebel, that sacrifice ourselves to become a single army: Even then.
They let you feel space and they let you feel a satellite and they even let you
inside: Strange extraterrestrial vibrations and a sense of our smallness in the
universe. Our smallness: Waves can swallow you whole. They can make you forget
the most basic things like which way the top is versus the bottom and that air
is the only thing you can