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  • The boats at sea carried the stillness to the far inlets.

    The ships in their long white lines carried the stillness to the salt promontories.

    Far off on a cloudy day, you could see stillness in its patterns, its dots, off in the far still shine of the matter.

    The water in its apparent gloom was still. But the gloom was a far blue, and it was the emptiness which the stillness filled, so quietly.

    The sand was roughed up but still, too.

    The chair sat like a mysterious meditation left in a slow slow hurry. Or maybe it was a meditation still waiting in the empty in the middle of the day, the kind of empty which is thrilling midst the people when the beaches are empty and the noise is down, and you can see the quiet patterns inside your own anvil and trumpet. When the beach looks like it had a good sleep and is still resting. When the patterns of shine shine on more boldly the less sun there is.

    The circles make a pattern: the mould of old, the wet of ages, the kind of nonchalanted ease we go to nature for, all full of our quest, then we give up, then we work and take a break and walk on a beach and find it. Serendipity is the best Zen master.

    What is this satori we seek?

    Do we even seek it? Is it possible it seeks us?

    Does it seek us in the form of patterns which lure us, seduce us, wait for us, in the confluence of a ship, a line, a dot of white, the essential cloud cover to see the blue look creamy and uninterested? Is there any thrill more thrilling than when the wild quiet world is uninterested in us?

    And the chair...? The ever-mystery of chairs. The story of the empty chair----who knows how to tell it? The chair with one arm. Born that way? Amputated by cruelty? An accident at sea? Did the chair attempt to swim the Mediterranean? Did it get to a war beach and turn around and now looks back to the chemical weapons? What can the line of islets mean? Circles, lines, slats, a kind of lonely feeling.

    Might this be a moment which George Jones sang about in "A Picture of Me Without You"?

    Who but the empty sea sings on behalf of the broken-hearted?

    (Photo by Susan, Barcelona)
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