Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Thoughts on Paradise
I was relaxing with my back up against America, convinced in the righteous goodness of the warm trade winds blowing my hair back, warming my core with tidings of pineapple and coconut. The masterful mixture is intoxicating, brewed on a thousand palm tree lined islands, all playing in the roux. Tourist with island drinks, sporting tiny umbrellas and large clear ice cubes dance by as if pushed by some hidden hand. Everything is pleasing to every sense, and each subtle sensation is stronger, as if on a sensory binge. The vibe of the area is relaxed, sated in some strange way. We’re all already here, why be anything else? Nonsensical thoughts follow each other down my spine, and tingle my extremities. Synapse firing off in miscellaneous trail of images connecting to form the moving picture I am taking in off the veranda.
Boats are sailing across the harbor, trawling along at the pace of the flats surrounding this speck of landmass. Rough fisherman and proud natives one and all, serving the waters, and the fat white tourists, bleached from Our American Excess. We are down here now, and as much as it matters, we have always been here, and we always will. We sell the last truth you can find, and that is the truth everyone wants, because it is whatever you want it to be. Here in paradise, we sell in the passive, almost unaware we even do it, but, like most efforts, practiced in such a sublime manner as to be intoxicating and Beautiful at the same time. Everything is aesthetic here in paradise, mixed with soft and warm sand between our toes and the finest of fine in our hands.
From here, we can spit into the sea and throw epithets across deep divisions confronting us. Sunglasses and the sun work together, altering ever so slightly the perception to a shimmering Beauty that surrounds us, painting us in tequila yellow and a ragged and limp shade of blue never seen before. My own brown eyes light up, widening at the thought of perfection and hospitality, singularly transfixed on a star shooting across the sky, somehow visible against the bright lights of the sun, amazing in its antiquity. The smooth breathing runs ragged, and with the greatest of effort I roll my eyes slightly, to focus on the sparkling water and the dark outline of Manta Rays swimming across the waves.
It is my first time here in paradise, and I am unsure of how to act. To fit in with what I perceive to be the local custom, I drink rum and gin by the pool overlooking the sea. There is a bar in the middle of the pool, and to my own amazement, not a lifeguard in sight. There are several bartenders in sight. I charge the drinks to my room bill, and enjoy colorful drinks in tall glasses chilled with ice. Chasing the sun across the sky, my spirit soars, then returns, tired from the chilling night air. Soaking in the warm water up to my neck, I can barely move. The last vestige of worry floats away from my body and I am water. I flow around the pool, concerned only with oxygen and hydrogen in varying forms floating all around my body. My senses razor sharp and clear, I can feel paradise pulse against my skin, floating through me, cleansing me inside out from the worry of the world.
Declarations of insanity not withstanding, I mumble something incoherent about food and my desire to be filled with it, and the bartender has a hamburger rushed up from the kitchen, still steaming in the night air when it arrives, nestled against a kosher pickle on a bed of potato chips. I eat my king’s feast overlooking my temporary kingdom, convinced a week can last forever. The days stretch out before me; beckoning, inviting, warm and soft against the possibility of ever leaving this land, and I am unconvinced. I stare up at the night sky and see stars dance and the trade winds blow against my face again, sweet like nectar.
Boats are sailing across the harbor, trawling along at the pace of the flats surrounding this speck of landmass. Rough fisherman and proud natives one and all, serving the waters, and the fat white tourists, bleached from Our American Excess. We are down here now, and as much as it matters, we have always been here, and we always will. We sell the last truth you can find, and that is the truth everyone wants, because it is whatever you want it to be. Here in paradise, we sell in the passive, almost unaware we even do it, but, like most efforts, practiced in such a sublime manner as to be intoxicating and Beautiful at the same time. Everything is aesthetic here in paradise, mixed with soft and warm sand between our toes and the finest of fine in our hands.
From here, we can spit into the sea and throw epithets across deep divisions confronting us. Sunglasses and the sun work together, altering ever so slightly the perception to a shimmering Beauty that surrounds us, painting us in tequila yellow and a ragged and limp shade of blue never seen before. My own brown eyes light up, widening at the thought of perfection and hospitality, singularly transfixed on a star shooting across the sky, somehow visible against the bright lights of the sun, amazing in its antiquity. The smooth breathing runs ragged, and with the greatest of effort I roll my eyes slightly, to focus on the sparkling water and the dark outline of Manta Rays swimming across the waves.
It is my first time here in paradise, and I am unsure of how to act. To fit in with what I perceive to be the local custom, I drink rum and gin by the pool overlooking the sea. There is a bar in the middle of the pool, and to my own amazement, not a lifeguard in sight. There are several bartenders in sight. I charge the drinks to my room bill, and enjoy colorful drinks in tall glasses chilled with ice. Chasing the sun across the sky, my spirit soars, then returns, tired from the chilling night air. Soaking in the warm water up to my neck, I can barely move. The last vestige of worry floats away from my body and I am water. I flow around the pool, concerned only with oxygen and hydrogen in varying forms floating all around my body. My senses razor sharp and clear, I can feel paradise pulse against my skin, floating through me, cleansing me inside out from the worry of the world.
Declarations of insanity not withstanding, I mumble something incoherent about food and my desire to be filled with it, and the bartender has a hamburger rushed up from the kitchen, still steaming in the night air when it arrives, nestled against a kosher pickle on a bed of potato chips. I eat my king’s feast overlooking my temporary kingdom, convinced a week can last forever. The days stretch out before me; beckoning, inviting, warm and soft against the possibility of ever leaving this land, and I am unconvinced. I stare up at the night sky and see stars dance and the trade winds blow against my face again, sweet like nectar.
