Potion in the motion

I watch the fluffy little cloud hanging near motionless against the green and rocks of the mountain,
waiting to be vaporised by the emerging sun rays, or to be blown to bits by the first stirrings of the fresh onshore wind. I am leaning, half naked and salty, skin against my near rusted through to the bone 1978 Golf. The hatch at the back is open, I can hear the Tony Cox tape playing on the car radio all the way across the parking area under the cold outside shower. The early morning breeze is stirring, the sun is on the rise, the surfing is done, and the best time of the morning is gone.

Earlier; out there on the perfect swell, the 5.45 sea like a mirror, the damp and salty air going golden with the horizon falling towards the Great God Ra in the east. Out there I knew why we live, why we tolerate each dreary moment of our lives - I think deep down human beings can hear the resonating movement of the sea against the earth that we live on, however faintly that vibration might be. And that the extent of our misery can be measured by the degree to which we have turned deaf to the rhythms of the timeless ocean beating against the shores of our own inner fluids. Maybe riding those waves on a morning like this is the ultimate capitalist concept, because it makes one feel like the richest man in the world. But fuck London and fuck every pound that it has ever produced anyway. The potion is in the motion, where the sea moves against the shore.

Betty’s Bay, 11 January, 2001.

p.s. I wrote the "f. the London Pound" bit thinking of the terrible winter weather there, when I worked there for a wage, far from this beautiful sea. And how many of my friends were slaving away at the time, sacrificing living for a minimum wage.

Read more on my yoga website and its "musings" page; see "Yoga and Nature"
There are also pictures of the beach that inspired 'Potion in the motion'.

More writing/return to the writing page.