Letters of Love IX

Dear Love,

It is chilly here in Lorne. From the resort I can see the sea, shimmering cold and impossibly perfect. The waves break on ochre sands, lashing themselves on black basalt to bloom into foamy white surf. I can hear the waves roll in, I can hear the wind wuthering through the leafless trees, etching love-songs on the mountains, and I am lonely. I wish I could wear your scent on my skin right now.

All day, the sun has been playing hide and seek. Cloud amass and dissipate, drawing chiaroscuros on the face of the sea. The beach is empty, devoid of footprints. Long fingers of turquoise stir the rock pools. Skeins of sea-weeds lie around, homeless, red-brown, tattered. I want them to tell me their stories. The air I breath in hurts. I am left to deconstruct secrets.

The streets are empty, boutiques sleepy behind the closed glass doors. I sip a hot cappuccino, warm my hands and walk towards the pier, swimming through a pungent eucalyptic current. I can taste it on my tongue, their stingy menthol kiss. The wattles are slowly blooming, popping into bright yellow fuzz-heads. There are roses and wildflowers and firs. And etched on a plate upon a bench is “In memory of Liam Love.” I think of this little boy I have never known. Sometimes I want to cry. It is a different sadness that fills me up, simply sadness that has no roots. It floats up, and expands. I stare on. The rain clouds shift, and a rainbow arches up.

We are so insignificant. With the sun removing her veil, the beauty is suddenly so powerful it aches. It sucks me in, titillates my nerves and leaves me wanting more- the desperately blue waters crashing in the arms of an obstinate shore, their loud cries for reciprocation and ultimate withdrawal to come back again. Love is like gravity. You come back, you always come back. The track snakes along the ocean, a few feet carved in the hills, redolent with fresh grass. Little red birds and yellow-combed macaws dive down, and before I can catch them on my lens, disappear. Everything is bright and vibrant, pulsating with a new zeal. It feels like winter has been vanquished.

Behind me, Lorne rises on the crescent. The hotels, the resorts, the cafeterias all receding as I walk on. Before me, the Antarctic swells, her huge breast heaving with a thousand orgasms. The pier is a wooden structure, deserted now. I walk to the end, sipping in the salt wind, my mind full of disconnected thoughts, trying to hook up verses and lyrics. Life can be perfect, I repeat in loops. Far away a lone surfer bobs on the waves like a merman.

8pm now, low music spills from my phone. The moon is a crescent, a forlorn slice of ice. I think of the sunrise today, the red throbbing into liquid gold, pooling in the east. Morning bursts, her feathers spreading slowly, swallowing all the blue darkness. And the glassy waves echoing his colors, metamorphosing into metallic greens and blues. I think of those million things I have not said, the million feelings I am scared to explore.


Lorne, VIC
August, 2013


Tour Courtesy: Tourism Victoria


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