Christmas

Out of the blue - certainly out of a cold steely blue sky - I have been ill. It came on gradually, over the space of a couple of hours, until I sat shivering and aching and feeling very sorry for myself. I have slept a lot over the last couple of days and am past the worst. I have lost my voice - but who do I talk to anyway? - and it has left me weak and tired but mercifully I have all that I need here for my physical comfort. I shall neither starve nor freeze.

In fact, I have so much fuel that I could spare a forked branch of silver smooth driftwood and set it up in the corner. This morning I have tied strings of shells, pebbles and sea glass and hung then upon my "tree". In front, I have set a large church candle to light my creation as the light fades this afternoon.

I have a bottle here. I have re-corked and sealed it with wax. Inside is a message:

To Whoever finds this,

I hope that this finds you well and happy at
Christmas and that you will have a time of
peace and comfort. May the New Year bring
you only good things and the contentment
that you have been wanting.

With Love from
The Beachcomber

I will now take the bottle to the water's edge and cast it far into the waves.

Tied & Teased

Walking along the beach, feeling and hearing the crunch of shingle beneath my feet and letting my mind wander.

"Tied"

"Teased"

"Wet"

Smiling, walking and happily hard in the frosty sun

Unspeakably Wonderful

The day is unspeakably wonderful: blue skied and intricately white crisped and even the pebbles on the beach are frozen into a wide lacy bedspread.

I am poorly and spend my days by the stove, drinking tea, reading from a musty, broken-spined, leather bound book and, from time to time, taking up my old tin whistle and playing a lament for aching limbs and runny nose.

Even so, I cannot resist the lure of such a perfect morning and so I strip on the doorstep and walk out onto the frozen beach, spreading my arms to greet the brilliant sun for a moment t and then, laughing until I cough, I nip back into the warm room, dress quickly and put the kettle on again.

One of those times

I am having one of those times. It is one of those "What the fuck am I doing with my life?" times when my happiness proves to be bubble thin and simply bursts, leaving me exposed and, when I look inside myself and weigh myself in the balance, I am found wanting. I must not waste what I have.

I think that I am going stir-crazy here. I crunch across the frozen beach to break ice and collect water from the stream and so at least the kettle whistles contentedly on the stove. I try to find warming books to read: summer tales and stories of found happiness and human kindness. I think that I am searching for a happy ending.

It warms me so to see friends starting to find their own happiness but my pleasure is tinged with a little sadness when I start to cast over the days ahead of me and I know that nothing is likely to change.

There is peace to be found in this place. The stove warms me and I have good supplies of comforting wintry food. I can draw closer to the heat, wrap a blanket around me and dream of a life that is not mine.

One thought does emerge from my meditations; I will not waste what I have.

I think that I might surprise people.

Ceremonies

There is a bitter wind across the beach this morning and there are ceremonies that I had been putting off which I have had to perform. I swept the rough wooden boards and smiled at the memory of the contrast your pale smooth skin against them. Then I unrolled the old, much mended kelim in front of the stove and the room was filled with the aroma of the caravanserai.

I sat on the step, a brimming steaming mug of tea at hand, and honed the edge of my axe until it was keen and then, throwing my coat aside, cut and split wood, enjoying my strength as I swung the heavy axe hard and with ease. The pieces were carried inside in a basket made from the willow that hangs over the stream that reaches the sea some twenty minutes walk from here.

Now I sit cross-legged on the rug and feed wood into the stove and enjoy fresh tea. I have been thinking about love, recognising that I am a loving man, but one who seldom, if ever, feels love. I am armoured against amour as surely as the strong walls keeps out the chill wind and have been since my childhood when I knew the tearing pain of loss for the first time and started to wall my feelings in.

I am enjoying being able to take the time to observe. I stare at the texture of a pebble and count stars; I hold a smooth pink shell to my lips and then peer closely into it, as I looked into widened, excited eyes as I slapped hard between widely spread thighs... over and over again.

Warmth

Sometimes one needs to take positive action.

I have been working on the cabin, defending it against the wild winter winds and waves. The roof is sound and the gaps around the winter sealed. An old wood burning stove has been dragged across the shingle (and what a job that was) and connected to the old flue. A large pile of driftwood is drying to keep me warm during the bitterest and coldest days.

Inside, I have made a bookcase from old timber and filled it with old friendly volumes, fossils & minerals and the small number of odds & ends rescued from my childhood home.

I will be content here; snug by the stove yet free to burst through the door, run through the rain and plunge, naked, into the waves.

Strength

I need the strength and power of the waves I watched yesterday to wash me clean and awaken me:


I'm not sure I am ready for what I have to do but I will do it.

Somewhat Cast Adrift

Cast Adrift? So what do I mean by that? I wish I knew exactly but I am muddle-headed after a week where a mild bug has slowly and inexorably dragged me down to a place where my arms and legs are as heavy as lead. This is never a good place from which to take a level headed view and I should know better than to sit and mope right now.

The beach is truly deserted. I feel marooned and almost, curiously, redundant. Glorious solitude has become miserable loneliness and I certainly didn't see that coming. I pride myself on being self assured but my need for others has been exposed like a raw nerve in a tooth. It hurts. I didn't see that coming either.

Perhaps its time to stow my things and head on away from the beach for a while.. or, perhaps more sensibly, for good. I suspect that I was always an inlander at heart and that I should leave the strand behind with my head held high and some very happy memories to sustain me as I look back and dream of my life by the sea.

In the meantime, I will throw myself into my work and reflect.

Gloriously Alone

Alone on a vast expanse of beach and with the sun unseasonably hot on my skin,
I walked right out to the water's edge, undressed and threw myself in.


Then, still gloriously alone, I walked along the sand, arms out and cock-hard in the sun.

I made my mark...


...dressed, and walked back towards my life.

All At Sea

I am feeling lonely and drowning in a sea of work. I am also under the weather which is making it even more difficult to keep up.

Friends seem to be drifting away, perhaps no longer swimming the same deep water as me, and I am starting to wonder what it is, exactly, I am looking for in this life.

In some ways, I have never been as successful as I am now; at the same time, I have seldom felt as alone and that written by someone who has always defined himself as an outsider, one who walks along his own path. I sometimes confuse myself with these contradictions.

This will pass; it always does. The beach is always less crowded as the summer ends and I will soon be strolling along the water's edge wrapped in a warm coat and with a scarf around by neck and, knowing myself as I do, enjoying the wistful feeling that such a day brings.

I Miss The Kisses; I Miss The Bites

I have been standing and staring out to sea with little thought of where I go from here.

I crave a simple life. Twice in recent weeks I have intended to write the phrase "simple life" but have actually written "single life". This is not the case so the slip isn't Freudian, simply an error.

My life is anything but simple at the moment and the various demands on me eat away at my calm. My libido is strong and, in my uncaressed state, my concentration suffers until I lose myself in fantasies of giving restraint, delivering sensations of varying degrees of comfort/discomfort and closely observing the reactions to my efforts.

Then glorious release.

The Sounds Of The Sea

I love the sounds of the sea. Gentle waves hold me in soft sonic arms and rock me to sleep. But today I want to shut the world out and I sit cocooned by the sounds from my ipod.

Shared music is a comfort on a day like this; a suggested song or gifted tune is like a squeeze of the arm as I listen to the sounds and smile.

Living On The Beach

In my mind, the transformation is complete and I have stolen away to this refuge on the beach. I walked the last mile with a pack over my shoulder, gritting my feet under its weight while my feet sank, ankle deep into the soft sand.

Now I wake, cosy enough in my bedroll on the bare wooden boards and survey my room and the few, practical things I have brought with me. Is this kitchen or bedroom? In my mind they have become fused and I know that preparing and eating food has slowly replaced the greatest sensual pleasure and so I would pound you with textures and pull your hair with flavours and make your eyes roll back into your head with sweet delights.

Even so, I still want to see your pale thighs spread on these rough boards and then fold and press your body beneath mine as I hold you and fuck you like the waves.

The Old Man Talks To The Sea About The Ghosts Of His Childhood

Oh my old friend the sea, everything has gone.

The bits & pieces and odd & ends that delighted my boyish eyes and which I held in my small hands have been gathered together, taken away and sold. All is gone.

It was just the flotsam and jetsam of the lives of my parents and grandparents but my brother's ghost hid among those things and I can hardly bear the loss.

I find myself caring less and less for possessions. I have walked around in a daze, making a note of what I would carry me away with me when I run to the sea for the last time. It would make a sorry little pile but then I dream about a simple life.

I have lost the pleasure that I once had in the things that surround me. Why hang on to them when they could be lost in a careless moment and why preserve them just so they have to be divided and bring more hurt or, worse still, so that they can be secretly gathered and divided, some "for safe keeping" and the rest for sale.

I hate this bitter taste but I cannot bear this happily.

I don't have the words anymore. Forgive me, my old friend the sea.

My Old Friend Pain

I awoke and there she was again: my old friend maddening pain exploring me with her terrible fingers; burning me behind my eyes and knotting my stomach with waves of nausea.

Far too late, I groped for the tablets beside my bed and drank long draughts of water, before dampening a face-flannel and making a cool mask for my eyes and then laying back to play the game that my old friend and I have played so many times before.

I started to explore the pain, quantifying it and pushing at its boundaries; mapping and pinning it down. Then I provoked it and goaded it to make it worse and thought "Is that the best you can do? I have the measure of you my friend"

Finally, I relaxed and sought refuge in that safe place in my mind and my bed became cool damp sand and my fingers stopped clawing at bedclothes and plunged deep down into it. The face-flannel that covered my eyes became seaweed to cool, calm and caress me.

Then seawater flowed round and held me in a silent, chill embrace and, yielding to its comfort and peace, I slept.

A Tale For A Summer's Evening

We had corresponded from time to time, seldom met but now found ourselves undressing - not uncomfortable in each others presence - and laying our wet swimwear on the bare wooden floorboards of this beach hut. It was the height of summer and the day visitors had long disappeared into the pubs of the town or driven sleepy children home to their beds; a few locals strolled in the evening light that lazily illuminated us through cracks in the wood and an old tattered net curtain drawn across the window to preserve the modesty of those who were changing.

No such modesty restrained us as I spread an old blanket over the rough boards and we sat down, facing each other, our faces wavering between excited grins and lip biting seriousness, We did not touch except for where our ankles crossed at one point. Instead, our hands started to caress our own bodies. I ran fingers along my arm to my shoulder and then down across my chest; you cradles a breast in your hand and then our eyes met.

We held each other's eyes in a level gaze as our fingers explored further, running freely over our bodies but inevitably settling between our legs where hardening cock and wetted cunt awaited our attentions.

I could hear your wetness and smell your arousal but my eyes were always on your face, closely observing your growing arousal. From time to time we would smile or grin like impassioned fools and, at others, we would withdraw into ourselves and the growing sensations that made our legs shake and breathing heavy.

Just once did I glance down. Your fingers were hooked and curled deep into your cunt, noisily pleasuring yourself as you gasped and trembled and approached your release. I lay back a little, supporting myself on my left arm as my right hand wanked my cock harder and faster until I cried out and, my eyes still fixed on yours, I came gloriously in union and in unison with you and we both fell back to eak out our pleasures, feeling our skin on the rough boards beyond the blanket and laughing and being caught up in the sheer joy of it all.

We cleaned ourselves with damp beach-towels and quietly climbed into our dry clothes. I turned my key in the rusty lock and we crossed the beach, leaving two sets of footprints in the cool evening sand and walked, hand in hand, to our cars and our separate lives.

Salt Water

They say that there is nothing that
cannot be eased by salt water,

whether by sweat, by tears

or by the sea

Attrition (2)

I am enjoying the feeling of calm after the storm but it feels that that every time it happens it hurts me more and takes me longer to recharge.

Today I am going to enjoy a peaceful walk, feel cool wet damp beneath my bare feet and fill my pockets with pebbles and shells, just as I have done ever since I was a little boy. It is a small but significant comfort.

Attrition

I am hit over and over again by pounding, crashing waves and I know that I am slowly losing my grip on this slippery rock. I don't want to let go but my numb fingers can barely cling anymore.

Life Is...

Life is...


Well, most of the time :-)

Another Day

Warm sunshine.

A favourite walk.

A handful of freshly picked cherries.

Its another day.

Midsummer

A day of different emotions.

I still think that joy was the strongest; it was also the first. I walked out into early sunshine - a glorious day - and stood as my coffee brewed. I was wearing my old morning robe and let it drop, feeling the warm air on my skin and felt the joy break through all the frustrations and I just bathed in it for a moment.

Later in the morning I was overcome with frustration and (such a rare visitor) anger and decided to walk them off but couldn't shake them. At one point, reaching a gate, I kicked it open fiercely, lost my footing and fell heavily onto my back.

No harm done and - thankfully - no-one to witness my shame but at least it cleared the negativity from my mind as I had to admit to myself that it was a stupid thing to do, that I deserved the bruises and that it would probably raise a wry smile later.

So here I am on Midsummer night and I can smile at myself but it is an empty smile because things really are not good. I ache with a frustration that I have absolutely no answer to. I smile but it is a bleak smile and I sit teary eyed (another very very rare visitor).

There is always a plan.

I will keep myself busy and not brood.
I will walk (but not kick at gates).
I will lose myself in glorious music.
I will cherish my friends.
I will allow myself to be in love in my own small and controlled way.
I will not neglect myself.
I will cook fabulous food.
I will look for and find beauty and pleasure in small things and brief moments.

And when my frustration turns to anger (which I always direct inwards anyway) I will remember myself laying on my back like a beetle one midsummer's day.

Finally, I stand by my first statement. My strongest emotion of the day was my joy at walking out into a beautiful morning. That morning sun has eclipsed the rest of the day.

Resignation

I just walked out for a while to clear my head and stretch muscles cramped from sitting and - just as I reached the furthest point and with nowhere to shelter - it started to rain. At first there were just a few drops and then a downpour. I walked through it with my head bowed and, in the matter of a couple of minutes, I was soaked and getting cold in the chill breeze.

In my youth I would have either laughed and danced in the rain or railed against it. Today I just felt a grim resignation; a dull ache that is a frequent companion; even here on my beloved beach.

I knew that the rain would stop and that I would soon dry and warm; I also knew that some things would continue and, if I walked all day and all night, they would still dog my heels.

Pebble

I like the thought of being a pebble in your pocket for you to squeeze when you need reassurance and at hand when you just want to throw something.

A Book and Its Cover

A cloudless sky and an azure sea.

Like a child, I kick my feet through shallow water and then make my way over sun-warmed pebbles to sit in the shade and enjoy the faintest of breezes.

I pull a small, slim book from my pocket. It is old and tattered but a good companion. I do judge this book by its cover as it always makes me smile the way you do when you remember a good time spent with a lover or friend and, inadvertently, I look up as if expecting you to come walking and smiling along the beach towards me.

Tango

Yesterday was one of those days when things just seemed to be on the verge of falling apart. I held myself up to scrutiny and didn't like what I saw. Last night I slept fitfully and woke up feeling dismal and frustrated on a chilly and grey morning. Sheltering behind an old wooden groyne, I pulled my coat tightly around me and sat listening to whatever my ipod shuffled for me. After a couple of songs, an Argentinian tango tune played and -immediately - I was transported back - slimmer and wild eyed - sitting in a uni bar when she walked in, stood behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

I looked up and turned to see a stranger beaming down at me. She was lithe and her pleasant face held what seemed to be a permanently amused expression. Without introduction, she said that she was on her way to a party and did I want to go with her? It seemed a great way to spend what had promised to be a dull evening and we walked together through late sunshine as I learned firstly her name and then that everyone would be speaking Italian. I had no Italian but I had some Latin; I was sure I'd get by.

We were happily drunk when she started to teach me how to tango.

Over the next few days we scratched the surface of each other's lives. She had been a ballet dancer and I remarked that she must be very flexible. She grinned and said that she'd show me; she did.

But summer saw us heading in very different directions. The last I heard from her was a post card from Pisa where, if I wished, her cool room awaited me. I was a penniless musician and a couple of years short of the courage that would have taken me on that adventure without a moment's thought.

I sat and smiled at the memories, silently hoped that she has had a good life, then stood up and faced a difficult day, my syncopated steps remembering the dance she had taught me.

Liebestod

I worked until my muscles could take no more, stopping just at that point where the music reached its final crescendo and - for a brief and precious moment - nothing else existed and I was free.

Before My Walk Is Done

It is a fresher morning and I love the cooler air on my skin as I walk endlessly, it seems, leaving a clear set of footprints behind me in the fine, damp sand.

Looking to my side I can see another set of prints, just close enough to have been able to touch fingertips with the woman who made them. Slowly, inexorably, her prints seem inch away from mine.

There are other prints that come tantalisingly close but appear forever out of reach and are always likely to arc away from mine as I move forwards; sometimes striding but at other times, like today, walking slowly but still steadily.

The further I walk through this life, the more it seems to me that - in one sense or another - my footprints are likely to end alone.

This melancholy thought makes me smile to myself wistfully. I raise my head and enjoy the sensation of the sand beneath my bare feet.

Before my walk is done, there are many more steps to betaken.

Falling Into Simplicity

You could call this place Simplicity.

The sun is shining today and, although the air is still a little chilled, I know that it will be warm later; perhaps even hot. I love this place for its clear air and the fact that being here gives me equal clarity of thought.

I escape here to submerge myself in a simple life. In the summer I can sleep outside, wrapped up in a blanket and then, when I wake, bathe in the sea. I eat line caught fish, cooked over a driftwood fire and drink coffee brewed in a can.

As often as not, I don't even have to wear clothes. With my feet in the shallow water and my head in the sun, I can feel very dancey indeed.

Evensong

It is so peaceful at the end of this glorious day. I sit and feel the gentlest breeze kiss my cheek and ruffle my hair as I listen to the slow, repeated, calming sounds of the waves. Picking up a smooth, flat cold pebble, I warm it between my palms and, hoping that all is well with you, find myself repeating Eliot as he quotes Julian of Norwich:

And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well

I skim the pebble out into the sea, counting its hops until it is swallowed by the darkness.

Jewel

We danced together in the cooling air of the evening and then, slowly, I undressed you, gradually revealing your pale skin and kissing its soft smoothness until you were naked except for a single green jewel.

Heat

The heat has come to the shore and, even though sea breezes offer some relief, I have aternated between swimming in the sea, enjoying the cold water moving over my skin, and sitting in a shady spot; lost in thoughts that only the touch of a lover could completely resolve.

Unlonely

I never really remember feeling lonely, even here where I am often completely alone. I can easily become occupied in my thoughts - not in a brooding way - just content with my thoughts, plans and dreams. I suppose that you could say that I am a content person and its true. I count blessings and do not dwell on problems; instead I try to breezily pass them by.

I am sure that the contentment that I find with my own company is very much tied up with a childhood which would see me either sinking or swimming. I developed a self reliance that certainly saw me swimming; never sinking - only diving underwater from time to time, definitely in control.

So now you can find me walking along the beach, kicking pebbles, picking up seaglass and shells and lost in my thoughts. Even if I'm not visibly happy, the chances are that I am smiling inside.

* * * * * * *

Returning to this piece after a few hours I have two further thoughts. The first is the reflection that the nearest that I feel to being lonely is, ironically, when I am in a large group of strangers. This is only an occasional feeling and then only fleeting.

Secondly, even though not lonely, I do crave human warmth - the touch of a hand on my arm, fingers entwined - even briefly - with my own, sitting thigh pressed to thigh, the pressure of an embrace or even a fleeting kiss. I may be unlonely but I am also uncaressed and there are times when I walk along the beach and even the brisk wind and pounding waves do not carry this thought away from me.

Work

I am lucky in that I am able to work more or less where I want to and I consider myself doubly lucky that I can work here. I had an early start this morning, but at the same time, I was still lingering over my breakfast mug of tea; the one activity easing gently into the other.

When I'm not making progress with work I can take a walk, kicking pebbles and watching the clouds shift with the changing wind. I love the silence of the calmer days but I'm also happy to find a spot to sit, put my ipod on "shuffle" and close my eyes. I may look as if I'm daydreaming but I'm probably still working in my mind.

Stranded - A Metaphor

I walk between the land and the sea, sifting through the detritus of the strand, whether it is the work of nature or that which has been cast off by other people; I examine it all. As I walk, I reflect on my life and the path that has seen me wash up here on this shore.