Randomness swells across the floating line. It is difficult to keep track of the difference between each rolling frequency without the aid of a mechanical eye. The position of the threshold shifts and the intensity of the emergence stretches and breaks the surface in its specific yet same way. The reflections of the sun sparkle in patterns that mirror the random immensity of these movements. Phantom bodies roll through this ever-shifting zone where even if the same exact wave were to pass through it would be received differently but the difference would perhaps be slight enough to go unnoticed or slightly noticed then quickly forgotten. Like when one goes home and tells others “I went to the beach and watched the waves.” The waves get consolidated into one phenomenon. A general wave stuck breaking. A frequency on repeat. A signal from a fixed threshold of a composite memory sounding off like a fog horn moving with the fog. The exactitude of the origin lost to the layering of more emergences breaking into the mind when it shifts between its thresholds and loses track of all the iterations and the specificity of those iterations rolling by.
“Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb” – Walt Whitman’s words rang over and over in my ears as I stared at the ocean. Some lines bury themselves for years or decades but seem to work their way up and break back through the surface again. And when it happens, it adorns me with its initial mystery. Like when the words first crossed over my lips. And I couldn’t stop reading his song aloud. Feasting on something with more flavor than I could apprehend. And now, still stung by the ebb and the flow. Shocked by that old lure, once cast and forgotten, jumping again. Electric.