Pacific Beach
The beach is awash in rocks. Each one a solid idea. Some round. Some fitting perfectly into an open palm. Others jagged. Miniscule. Still others large as islands. Piles of ideas rolling around in a sea of time. Bumping into one another until no sharp edges remain.
Singular ideas. Older than time itself. Some beautiful and shiny. Others rough and perilous. Perfectly shaped notions. Awkward opinions. Sharp perceptions. Ill fitting concepts. Profound thoughts.
What happens when they come together? Ideas grow into arguments and stories. They stack into shapes that rise above the shoreline. Becoming short stories and novels, essays and books. Telling lives and dreams and epoch adventures. Ideas carefully balanced against the odds of gravity. Seeming impossible, yet attracting the eye, the hand, the mind. Telling something. Lifting out of the earth a new story of life or death or love or rage. Speaking in silent tones that only the artist or poet can hear.
