Yesterday I went to the car to write. but I’d gotten up too late. It was not dark and soft and warm and quiet. I was cold and cramped and then I went online and stupidly (I felt at the time) published a sightly edited version of a journal entry I’d found in DayOne. It happened to have been from exactly one week before — that was the last time I’d written there. And I’d come again to write — to write the scene called “Thunder bath” in my mind — the scene where I find a place to swim, on the seventh day, the sabbath day, of bathing every day, rain or shine, in the sea. And I hadn’t worn my bathing suit under my clothes, and a lightweight towel as a scarf, as I usually do, when I started my walk that day, which first goes down, then up, then through the woods, then to the beach, since I was in no mood to continue with my self-commitment that day. But then, when I walked by the lower road, I saw the tide was high, and though it was raining and chilly, it might be nice to go in after all. So at the end of the walk I went to a more private sort of spot at the exit of the woods, so that I could just go in my underwear and no one would be there. But the “rich” sea people were in their 4M dollar homes for the weekend, as it turned out, and there was no more private spot that I knew of. And one group was having a ritzy dinner party in a candle-lit yurt. And I felt self conscious, thinking they would assume I was doing this just to be looked at, which was certainly not the case at the time, so I didn’t go topless which would have been far more practical, in terms of having warm dry clothes to put on afterwards. I wore my coral tank and my usual standard issue ancient black buoy short, and found a somewhat secluded place to go in, between some rocks. And none of that matters, but in another way it did, because it’s so much in my psyche. What I wear, no matter how unintentional or nondescript (I was still in my pyjamas, basically, the same ones I’ve been wearing since around 2016 or longer — yoga pants and an old soft jade grocery store top) and how people perceive me. And I still haven’t written that scene either, and the thoughts that passed my mind as I heard coincidental wine-sauced shouts the moment after I, ancient, faded and bedraggled, but now quiet-joy renewed, passed by, far and faint and nondescript as I could get down the beach from the houses later, near water’s edge, on my way home.
But that time was mixed up with another time, before that. That time I think of as “thunder bathed.” When I went into the shallow end of the stormy sea, even afraid as I was, because it was murky and I couldn’t see what was beneath me, and yet I knew what might exist in the deep; but there was also a seal, yes for real, which I felt was keeping me company; and when I came out, the sea was less stormy. Like I had been the turbulence and the thunder, and when I came out, there was only peace