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Archive-name: Casual/whitsand.txt

Archive-author: Pat O'Brien

Archive-title: Whitesands





Copyright 1993 Pat O'Brien

All permissions reserved except for the right to distribute in

electronic text form across computer networks.





I went to White Sands that Sunday evening.



After our argument I had spent the weekend in a fugue.  An

automaton, I spent hours at the computer..achieving little

but an excellent score on Xhextris.  By Sunday the pain set

in and I had to mobilise or sink into a depression and

emotional agony so vast that I could not contemplate its

ending with any modicum of rationality.



It was 6pm when I set out.  The summer sun still harsh and

bright on the road with the only consolation the traffic

streaming towards me in the opposite lane.  I had thought to

go to Scarborough but the lure of deserted spaces directed

me to the open beach.



White Sands has little to recommend it.  A grey beach, 

sodden to mud at low tide, ineffectual ripples of waves 

sucking desultorily at a shell-less beach.  The

ocean burps rhythmically there...it does not roar with the 

depth required by a broken heart.  It does, though, have a vast 

empty expanse and rocks on which to sit and feel the sharp 

reassurance of being alive...and human.



By 9pm the sun relaxed.  It cast gold anodynes over the sands

and I stood barefoot with the water feinting shyly at my  toes.

The horizon blankly returned my stare and a sharp well of

pain rose in me.  Alone, I allowed the desperate well to fill

and I heard my own deep, vocal pain challenge the North Sea.

It arced harshly over the suddenly frozen swell, a highlighted

gold offence.  



"Shit!"  The voice, alarmed, sounded behind me.



I spun.  A man, ten yards from me stood glaring in horrid 

fascination.  His stance was a parody of a running

man...a thwarted escape and frozen concern.  



Much later I rationalised my movement towards him.  Misdirected 

anger, misplaced love, emotional yearning...a driving to fill 

suddenly empty places.  To his tribute he stayed, braced and took the 

force of my arrival with a sharp expulsion of breath and firm

surrounding arms.   His heart was beating fast...the shock of

the scream still alarming his blood.  Then I sank into him, this 

stranger, with the live pulsing of an intensely loving animal.



We fucked.  I barely remember the shed of clothes...just the

sudden thrill of naked body heat and the vibrant stroke; his 

sliding, shafting of me.  Each leaving an ache and return

a jubilee.  This man filled me with the hundreds of lusts 

echoing in the sea...the brittle reality of grinding sand

and the numb warmth of human knowing.  I craved him and he

completed me...urging my hunger in the cooling embergolds of

the dying sun.  I rose to him and he weighted me...I opened

to him and he entered.  I swole holistic and he prevailed. 

More than that he freed me...



Long after the throb and revel was spent, my senses pulsed.

That Sunday, I passed the mundane...the caught chill moment

of the banal.  I leaped into a strange dimension where all

men and women meet in complicity...the Human.  No man is a

stranger...each an image of those who exist before and

after, no body an `other' but the grouped and massive beat

of the thousands of aching hearts and naked lusts.



Each time I feel the new rejection...the sharp foil, I feel it

shared by everyone, everywhere.  I feel the abandoned child

and the beaten women, the terrified and the starving, the

strange eyes of the unfulfilled.



Each time my blood seeks levels in the afterglow of this screaming

bond it feels the deep swell of human tides...the grit and

aliveness of a pulsing union.



Each time I look for freedom's gate I find it in the electric blue 

blaze of a stranger's eyes and deep gold dusk of White Sands.



--



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