Suddenly everything changed. It was the hiss and fizz of the water, the swish of stones in the white surf, the grey waves rolling up and laying themselves across the sea shore. The running up of water along the beach. I love the greyness, the noise, the wind that rips the flecks off the waves, the spray. It’s the spray that soaks everything, hair, clothes, shoes, feet. A saturation of salt water. The water bounces up again as it hits the land with immense force and power.
I face north east looking out towards Antwerp and Rotterdam, imagining the towns of Leuven, Mechelen, Ghent, Nieuwpoort, Kortrijk, Bruges, Ostend, Oudenburg. It seems another age since last in Flanders, the flat watery landscape, canals, wind turbines, medieval towns and villages, churches with hidden histories, memories of the Humanists and Family of Love. There is a mystery there still; secrets from the sixteenth century yet untold.
The sea has its own pleasures, Fourier understood this, the strange sexual attractions within the cosmos, the ability for all realities to be upended, a fantasy, but what better opposition to this washed out corruption of reality?
There was perfect solitude beside the sea, walking so close to the edge, being in the sea, the land disappearing, the rhythmic roar, the murmurings and soft seductions, sirens, mermaids, unknown spirits. A ghost appeared and although it quickly vanished left a strong impression.
Becoming awake once more as the undertow of the water sucked the shingle back towards the depths of water. The magic of sea rain, the boundaries of surf, spray, rain, sea all disappearing.
I studied my thoughts aware of the sensation of being alive.
As I walked back I realised how far away I’d been.