brujita_nina

Racing through the dunes, up and down those little hills of sand, is hard, I won't deny that. We did it because we had to, we do it because we have to, and hope we don't trip and cut outselves open on broken glass.

And I always wondered why God or whoever made life that much harder than it had to be, why the waves couldn't wash up on pebbles or even just a smooth sheet of unshattered glass. But I guess glass has no friction, and when the water came in wet and salty, you'd just slip, fall, break something bad. Pebbles can slice up your feet if they're not worn down enough, and I guess that at least, if you fall on sand, it might burn if it gets in your eyes and sting your mouth, but it won't hurt you. It won't hurt you too bad, and you can always rise up again and keep stepping.

I never wanted it. I never wanted this, because running on asphalt is easy, and running on concrete was easier, and just don't understand this. His smile is gone (I did it)), and I want the waves at my feet again, my thighs, my hips, my breasts, then under, but I don't understand why I can't eat, and why I can't sleep, and why, why, why this all matters so goddamn much to me.

New layout. Cute.

I'm tired. Fucking exausted, niños. *sigh*

Durden, get over here. It's so cold tonight.

..so I hear there's a rumble in the Bronx.

Hey, Tyler, you still coming up with me this weekend to the surf thing?

Yo, Kacia, you and me. Wanna tear up Santa Monica like somethin' somethin'?

...I think my insides are on fire

A man once asked me where home was and I said the sun setting in pain over the Pacific. I don’t really think I’m a romantic, but I always remember the first night, and the second. It was all that I could see, or wanted to see, anyway, dying in ragged rage onto the umbrellas, the people, the pier and, most of all, greater than all, the thrashing Pacific. The tantrum stopped cold and chilled under the gold.

And it’s funny, because I’ve watched it for as long as I’d like to remember but I never really wanna leave the show. I guess like any other girl I like beautiful things and glitter. But I don’t have pearls or emeralds or even much real jewelry except for the shitty little knick-knacks I pick up in Venice. But, see, I guess I do get those flannel mornings, warm and grey and studded with lonely seagull calls. When all this place is is this desolate landscape of tans and grays, brown and spongy where the water creeps up and bites. Those tangy sunrises, just a whisper of strained pink calling through that heavy grey, then the people, louder, louder in crescendo And on the days when it doesn’t rain, sunsets like the inside of a mango just cracked, a sweet citrus-y orange symphony, or all the melting plum gelato you could ever imagine…

Run away at dawn to find your meaning somewhere out between the low-hanging gray sheet of sky and roll of sea. Your peace wafting somewhere between the sheaves of dryly dying sea grass, and your life in the slope of slimy sand. Crabs pop in and out of their holes, but the storm does not lower, threaten, even whisper. Come with me down the brown VIP carpet; I’ll pull you over, out, and under until we’re there, just out in the middle of everything where nothing sits still long enough for anyone to get us. We’ll ride her in as she combs out her hair, ride her in and laugh in between the lacy tickle of the foam. We’ll ride her in between AIDS needles and baby clothes, plastic bags from Ralphs, the occasional seagull feather. And when we stand again immersed in brown, her all over and through us, we’ll be safe and salty, new as babes, purged of all traces of offices and file folders, bosses in psychedelic ties and pin-striped shirts. Because the wildness lives here, full fallen and risen again in the swells, the tide pools, her face, the uncontainable fury. A freedom thrives in secret between the wristwatch shadows of this continuously dying land. Listen; can you hear her? She washes up gentle beneath your toes…..