i stole a friend’s summer goal: travel to the ocean once a week. and i have, mightily. weekends spent in the sun all over the beaches of new york and new jersey. i challenge myself to remain amidst the vast atlantic until my fingers start to prune, no matter how tired or chilled i think i am. swim. totally submerged with air in my lungs and liquid in my belly. i scream, i splash, i kick, i dive: down down. i fear the cold darkness, the creatures that lurk beneath. a jelly fish got the better of me out on the north shore, but i wasn’t angry. a brief red rash. the passing waves of pain caused by the passing waves.
there are floods as i sleep in brklyn. all possessions destroyed, lives ruined until morning when i wake.
“There is nothing that we really need to do that isn’t dangerous. 8th Street artists knew this years ago, constantly spoke of risk. But what’s meant by ‘risk’? Lose something – property, life, principles? The way to lose our principles is to examine them – to give them erring.”