Surf
Henry never had an imaginary friend.
He walks down the beach, the yellow froth on the edge of the sea licking around the soles of his boots. He walks arm in arm with Isabelle, who is at the same time holding his hand and gesturing wildly as she speaks. Henry has no choice but to follow her movements as emphatically as she makes them.
“You have to see how it is, everything mashed up together in my head; in your head. Everything that you know, and everything you learn caught in one place, crammed up, churned around. Everything that exists, for you, you see?”
Henry nods and makes an involuntary expansive gesture.
“Not to say that there’s nothing else, but there’s nothing else that matters. Not until it does matter, that is. What’s in there? What’s real when everything is subjective?”
Henry nods and hums a tune he knows.
“What about the intangibles? Justice? I like that. What about transitionals? You’ve got to have those too. There all in there, are they real?”
Henry shrugs and adds words to his tune.
I see the moon,
and the moon sees me.
“What if they aren’t? I don’t like the sound of that. Everything piling on everything and the edges blurring to make up who I am. You know, like those pictures, made of those little pictures, made of littler ones - all the way in. I don’t want holes. Gaps in reality.”
The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see,
God bless the moon,
“And what about the good things, happiness, love, trust. I don’t like the idea of those things not being real. And they’re there too.”
and God bless me,
“Aren’t they?”
Henry stops in the sand and breathes in. Alone on the beach.
He looks back at the twin tracks of footprints, skewing away into the distance. The surf rolls over them.
God bless the somebody I'd like to see!
His voice rises, and picks up the day.
He walks down the beach, the yellow froth on the edge of the sea licking around the soles of his boots. He walks arm in arm with Isabelle, who is at the same time holding his hand and gesturing wildly as she speaks. Henry has no choice but to follow her movements as emphatically as she makes them.
“You have to see how it is, everything mashed up together in my head; in your head. Everything that you know, and everything you learn caught in one place, crammed up, churned around. Everything that exists, for you, you see?”
Henry nods and makes an involuntary expansive gesture.
“Not to say that there’s nothing else, but there’s nothing else that matters. Not until it does matter, that is. What’s in there? What’s real when everything is subjective?”
Henry nods and hums a tune he knows.
“What about the intangibles? Justice? I like that. What about transitionals? You’ve got to have those too. There all in there, are they real?”
Henry shrugs and adds words to his tune.
I see the moon,
and the moon sees me.
“What if they aren’t? I don’t like the sound of that. Everything piling on everything and the edges blurring to make up who I am. You know, like those pictures, made of those little pictures, made of littler ones - all the way in. I don’t want holes. Gaps in reality.”
The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see,
God bless the moon,
“And what about the good things, happiness, love, trust. I don’t like the idea of those things not being real. And they’re there too.”
and God bless me,
“Aren’t they?”
Henry stops in the sand and breathes in. Alone on the beach.
He looks back at the twin tracks of footprints, skewing away into the distance. The surf rolls over them.
God bless the somebody I'd like to see!
His voice rises, and picks up the day.