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  • I am dreaming of salt. I am in a dream of salt solution. I am drowning in the hardpan. I am elevated by the round blue.

    Up the dream rock I walked to the infinite blue. This is a blue which should be illegal. Arrest the desert blue.

    The salt lifted like hardpan dreamland to the unclouded sky.

    The sky became a salt sky, the sky became a fjord of salt, I was surfing in my deep blue full body suit, on a board in the north of Spain. I was surfing on the longest wave in Europe, there in the heart of terrorist country, at Mundaka.

    In the dream, the board boogies way out on that wave, it was January and so cold and perfect, only the hardcore surfers come to northern Spain in the winter, when the weather is rough and grey and powerful and like a grey foamy steam engine. In the dream I could surf like nobody's business, in these dream nights of the possible.

    But I had been there. Did I surf there? Was I dreaming my impossibilities from my possible life?

    I got in my full body blue wet suit. I was me alone. There in the heart of terror country where the ETA graffitied the towns and nobody dared wash it off, or so I told myself, maybe they did not want to wash it off, I said nothing, I walked down to the stone wall and sat in the January cold and watched the two lone surfers carry themselves way off the fjordy points, this grey aloneness the surf connoisseurs come to Northern Spain for, in the winter.

    I sat low and watched them. I got up and in my full body blue I carried my surfboard down to the waves. I paddled out. It was grey northern weather. It was also the heart of the ETA country. These rocks, this shoreline, this beautiful beautiful life. They bomb it, and the surf knows nothing. The surf sees all, tells nadita.

    I paddled out. I stood up. Here are the longest waves in Europe. Some of the longest in the world.

    A small hotel, inevitably called Hotel Mundaka, the spare sparse population in the cold grey winds, the lunch served in the warm upstairs venue unmarked in extremis in the town. To walk through was to walk through a ghost town entirely populated behind closed shutters. All you do is open a door, of an unmarked location, go up a set of stairs to an unmarked restaurant, very popular as in regular-folks, and for a couple of Euros eat like surf Queen. Winter makes a new place of summer places.

    In the dream I surfed the longest wave in Europe, there in Mundaka in that elegant dangerous grey. (That world-long left break....)

    What wave could I surf in the desert?

    What wave could I surf at Zabriskie Point?

    I could surf the salt, I could surf and still be standing, I could be a one-woman-stop-motion parade, all stop no motion, I could surf the ancient memory beds, I could surf where once water flowed, I could surf the dream which once was true, when once Nevada was all underwater (when once eastern California was the edge of the known place, when once) there was water, there was land, there were no bombs, just natural lava, when once the earth exploded, when once the big bang was natural fumes, when once there was no graffiti, and I love graffiti, but I did not photograph the terrorists' graffiti in the great surf town, I went up the unmarked door to the unmarked restaurant and ate, where the town looked like a ghost and the ghost was populated inside, and the bombers had the run of the graffiti walls and the surf knew nothing.

    The surf rolled out in its natural-born fjords.

    In my dreams, I am elemental, I am elegance itself, in my dreams I have perfect balance, in my dreams I am lovely, in my dreams I roll by the houses on the promontories, in my dream I was rolling on my surfboard in my full winter blue surfing suit down the narrow passageway of water.

    These are the things the desert brings back to you.

    (Photo by Susan, Zabriskie Point, California)
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