Old year moby dick

 I couldn’t find it, in sleep or wool or the evening winter water. I shrugged down my jeans and underwear under the striped towel, feeling vulgar on that windy strip. Two figures, the man in his neoprene anzug and long fins and camera with the bright light, flashing in the peripheral, I keep glancing over to check for a star or headlights. Both would be catastrophic down on the cliff faced beach. The horse, both monocoular and binocular, blind in the front and back. I remember walking the narrow road, twice, once the lagoon was emptied and the small motor boats sat with their bellies pushed up in the mud. The fish and gun club. One time with my parents, the first or second, the empty lagoon or the filled, one time with an ex boyfriend, we looked at glass shards and rocks on the beach. I would like to say I regret explaining that I felt like my brain was a giant glass orb, filtering, like a jellyfish. I am rarely angry. Watched dogs swim and the gulls, oh the gulls. I change under the towel, naked naked naked. That’s what I imagine people see as they walk by me changing, shes naked under there, let’s pants her! No swell, but wind, and yet, water still, still. But wind, still. Yet still the water. The wind, warm, tossing the sea grass and weed in tornadoes, as if there were a storm coming. There is no storm coming, the water is still. I run my feet over the ridges beneath the surface, watch the plain-backed expanse of sand muddied by my movement. Muddied by movement, the second figure: a seal in the small waves that push in now and again. At first I thought: a neoprene man swimming face down, but then: face down too long ∴ a seal. As I go out further, I find a steady conviction that a tsunami is coming, the water pulled back like this, still, and yet, the wind. I turn my back to the horizon and look at the shore, these people will die with me in the tsunami. This couple is obstructing my view, they walk 5 feet (a short distance moved along a long stretch) and then embrace. They hug they kiss, touch each others faces, each others hair, are they breaking up? Somehow I can’t imagine this display being for any other reason. I only cry in public if I’m breaking up. I peer. There’s a man wearing all black with his dog, who is brav, sehr brav. Brav like obedient, not like tapfer. Tapfer like brave, not like tapier. There is a family taking photos together, I overheard them say they were from Delhi, “they don’t have beaches in Delhi.” There is a girl very happy laying on her towel, wearing socks, she is looking out. I wish I had on socks. I saw this tsunami simulator video online, very poorly animated, filmed from a phone held by poorly animated arms on the pixel beach. The voice in the video was real, layered with a big whoosing sound. The animated sim with a real man’s voice kept saying “oh fuck it’s a tsunami, oh fuck it’s a tusnami”. I go down into the shallow still water, the warm wind, the gulls. Water in my ears the rest of the day, bob my head to one side every couple of minutes, everyone thinks something's wrong. I walked to this canyon earlier and past signs “trail closed” with my field recorder with the fuzzy microphone wind shield. I was worrying that people in the houses up at the ridge would look down and think I was a girl in a hat in the canyon with a gun. I sat on the ground and watched a bee walk along the flood path, I tried to record bird sounds but just got a leaf blower and airplanes, I took an advil for my headache, it was all pretty depressing. I cried on the beach when my friends asked me about Something and they rubbed my bare back. I was wearing the hat so I could angle my face down and make a little fort between the brim and the towel, I looked up and made eye contact with an old teacher from highschool walking by. There isn't really anything good to say about Something, the teacher isn’t wearing a shirt. I tried to say something good at the bar the other night and later on someone said they wanted to put me in their pocket. That’s not what I intended, I felt angry in my bed, angry on the couch. Like Ahab, I don’t want Moby Dick to end. 

I’ve been feeling embarrassed of putting writing on here and telling people about it. 

The embarrassment is divided into discrete sections (pie chart) 

1. Writing is frequently bad, I write every day in little notebook or little iphone and most of it is bad. Most of what everyone writes is bad. All you can do is go forward continually and sometimes hit upon something glimmering. People like bad writing, that is a good thing. 

2. Sharing writing is uniquely embarrassing.

3. Most of daily writing is personal. I dont care to autobiographize all of everything. I dont care to spell proper. To let people know how long I shit for or what I thought about in the morning. 

4. I am occasionally surrounded by critics, they infest my zeal. Instead of actually producing anything, even bad things, they read and talk, read and talk. Terrifying.

5. Instead of spending time sharing and then anxiously worrying about sharing, I prefer to watch YouTube or kill the ants in my room or order a drink.  

6. Oscillate between complete silence or compulsive internet share. Compulsion rules me.

This is my confession, embarrassing in and of itself. Being the goose is sort of a good feeling.