… goes on in front of our Rehoboth Beach balcony. We love to watch it.
Everyone does. It draws crowds.
… something you never see. Storm must have “stirred them up.” One was still alive, and I asked my sister to pick it up and put it in the surf. She declined, which turned out to be very smart. They’re vicious.
… the sun came out – briefly – and we all ran down to the beach to celebrate.
Being on the tail end of a hurricane turns out to be a real tonic for ol’ UD, who must share this odd trait with others, because she’s far from alone beside the raging ocean. The restaurants – on a dreary sodden Monday night – were packed; we had to wait at the bar for a table, but that was fine cuz the bartender wanted to know the details of the Rapoport/Ocean City legal case, so actually we had to tear ourselves away from him.
Obviously there’s a drama to it all – the shimmying trees, the wind/waves roar, the watery watery world – and everyone’s pleasantly stirred. The inner/outer contrast is a thing too – our zennish hotel has hearths aplenty, and perfumes from their spa drift along the air; and in case you need more tranquillizing, they’ve just this year inserted a glowing bar into the glowing lobby.
My drink, however, is black, fruit-flavored, tea; and I stare at a fireplace and watch my tea’s smoke curl up while I listen to an audiobook version of AVENTURES D’ALICE AU PAYS DES MERVEILLES (one must continue to set oneself challenges, even into one’s dotage) through my earbuds.
Off to two days at the soggy beach. Blogging continues.
Emerging from the cool mist: A bird, a kayaker, and a boardwalk stroller.
A little corner of corn, along with a mulberry tree full of red winged blackbirds.
… signaled, this morning, the imminent appearance of the Bidens, who have a place down the block.
… and now, at one in the morning, it was just beach, stars, and dark sky. The waves pounded rather scarily. On the blue tarp path to the sand, a solitary person startled us. “I was lying down on the path for the meteor shower, but I got up when I heard you.” A slender young man, maybe seventeen, wearing a hockey uniform, appeared in our flashlight. “My mom told me there might be a meteor shower.”
“Might even be a meteor storm,” said UD. “But might be nothing.”
“I’ve seen twelve meteors already,” he said, excited. Also genial, polite.
“That’s promising! Any of them have tails with fireballs?”
“No, but most of them were very bright.”
UD liked his excitement, recognized it as the same species as hers — the anticipation of an insane cosmic shakeup. As in – why should that not be? Why should the infinitely firm (yeah I know it’s not really; but that’s how it looks to us) firmament not do a big ol’ break dance and splatter itself with sweat? Why shouldn’t that occasionally be? Not Stars Fall From Heaven stuff, but the universe for, say, twenty minutes, losing its glacial poise – its gassy poise. Letting its freak flag fly…
And here were Les UDs, ideally situated – prone under a huge clear sky on an empty stretch of soft sand. Light breeze, seventy degrees.
******************
And certes, as soon as we lay down, bright meteors (and jets, and satellites; and, over there, bejeweled container ships) blasted out of the black, their silver stilettos thrilling the three of us… But there weren’t many of them — not a shower, not a storm, not even a swarm; merely jabs here and there concerning the death of comets.
And fine. Our humble humanoid charge was to thank the divine withholder for at least this much glint, even this weakly dropped hint of the amazement up there.
Mr UD babbled throughout about big bang controversies and changes in the laws of physics and UD tried to follow as her eyes swept the sky.
After, UD told the hockey kid about Cherry Springs State Park. He whipped out his phone and read, entranced. We left him there (Mr UD made sure also to mention Big Meadows) in the bowl of the universe, in his little circle of cellphone light.
Day Two of our mutual observation of the Sisyphean Sand Sweeper, who emerges cinematically from the sea mist.
There he is, far right on the boardwalk, having brushed his bit of silt beachward… He grasps his broom in his right hand as he boards his bicycle … “Does he just do this one opening,” asks Mr UD as we watch him wobble off, “or does he do a line of them?”
He disappears into the haze.
And ol’ UD instantly thought of Don DeLillo’s story, “Midnight in Dostoevsky,” which, as the title suggests, evokes a darker than dark, zero-visibility world, and places in it an intriguing person who emerges from the cloud of unknowing; it then adds two observers who, day after day, discuss among themselves this human apparition. In the story, it’s a rather shabby old man in a snowy empty upstate NY town who every day takes a solitary walk in the snow; here, in our fashionable Delaware beach town, it’s a thready old guy who appears every morning to accomplish obscure self-appointed rounds.
