Ian Anderson 6 p.m., March 7
The beach was noisy; a cacophony of not unpleasant sounds--children shrieking delight, the waves slopping on the sand, a throng of pedestrians , their flip-flops a-flapping, punctuated minute to minute by the polite ting-ting of a bicycle cutting a slow swath thru the throng of glistening bronze belly buttons and low slung baggy board shorts, and the occasional whump of a volley ball returned correctly. It's a mere hundred steps ascent to the top of the band shell bleachers facing the shore, and the din dissolves into white noise, a single simmering hum which lulls me into a dream-like reverie. From here, the bustling crowd milling about on the pier below resembles an ant farm, swarming in the same kind of frenetic frenzied disorder, a silent steady stream of liquid motion now easily ignored. What a privilige to be here now on this glorious summer afternoon, soul adrift in the mesmerizing calm of this vast brilliant blue sparkling ocean. I submit.
Posted December 7, 2010