Ocean Sunscreen
But they say, "oh to be young"
Innocent of what's to come
Oh, to be beautiful, each mistake excusable
Give into sweet temptation
Aquamarine water has the mind swimming in shallow thoughts. Blazing sun does nothing to ease an icy heart and the only solace I find is how easily I can manipulate the sand into small dig outs, making little holes deep enough to find remnants of the last high tide. I’m with people but we aren’t the same species. I wonder what song my mother listened to with her friends on warm summer days like this. Driving around in that tiny red convertible I’ve heard so many stories about - the same one she mentioned driving to Florida during that one night, with her friend, that she took too much acid and felt the world was hers. What was playing? What CDs inspired their moods in those days? The water is aquamarine but the sharks don’t know that. A man in New York is addicted to heroin but he doesn’t know that. I don’t know how to tell either one the details of the world they’re surrounded in.
Sunglasses on. Gold, thin rimmed. I know this is not based. I’m not allowing proper circadian rhythm function into my body because I’m disrupting the natural state of Day and Night by allowing synthetic lenses to blind my body from understanding when it’s supposed to be awake. I’m not allowing my horrible eyesight to use the sun's natural healing properties. I’m aware I’m just as bad as the sunscreen wearer. The ones beside me. Lathering up. “Hey, Winston, could you spray this on me?”
I turn my head. Painfully slow. Muscle aching movement. Sore neck from the extra stuffed pillow in a stranger's home. Lights were pink, floor was old wood worn in by thousands of steps, the drink was Casamigos reposados and “did you know that means rested? The tequila can sit between two months to a year before being bottled.” I don’t say this out loud. I decided against it. Let others discover thy useless facts on their own. The home was old, her and her roommates share a portion of the home inside a portion of the home and on the front porch I smoked a cigarette with a man born in France who’s moved here to become a chef. He’s 29 and is training. He’s a line cook. I admire the ambition. I tell him this. She came to get me from the porch and the rest is written.
Body is sore from less and less sleep. “Yes.” I say. Timed perfectly. After what seems like an eternity our eyes meet as my lips close. There’s a longing in their eyes and I only wish to get that turned on by being sprayed with sunscreen. I only wish…
“You have to come here though.” I say
While pushing off the ground to stand up, “I know, I know.” They hand me the spray. It’s an SPF 70. I want to mention that after SPF 30 the protection becomes pretty pointless, only shifting by 2% when the protection is maxed out at SPF 100. But again. I decide against this. I keep my visions to myself.
They start to push sand back into my freshly dug holes. I widen my feet, back into the hot sand. They sit down on the again-flat ground in front of me. I feel sad at first. Despondent. - “Do something with effort and someone just comes to ruin it.” Such is life etc etc but that washes away. Now when they leave I have something else to look forward to. I get to redig my holes. Get to enjoy, once more, the pleasure of finding cool ground. Sisyphus is smiling.
I find much joy in the spray mechanism and am accused of “overdoing it.”
As punishment, as result of putting too many uneven layers on their back I’m told to, “rub it in or else it’s going to be streaky and you know how weird that looks.”
I do. I begin to rub. My hands are greasy. My body is involved. My eyes shift from the back of their neck, to the thin bikini strap tight in nice bow, and finally away from that, looking past that into the aquamarine water but this time i realize I’m living the shallow thoughts, finding disinterest in them, and laugh at my thoughts from early before pinching their spine - causing a small yelp, a playful smack, a good American day.
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WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
THE REASON THERE’S SAND IN THE BED
