Chiara asked if I fancy myself to the likes of Kerouac- I told her I feel better than that: I’ve got Jack’s soul in a complete volume and my northern light is a Google application.
I see a pleasant beach from this abandoned and broken plastic lounge chair I recline on. I reckon aloud at all this human domesticity that was, at that time, all around me.
“Have I ever seen the water meet the sand in a place that wasn’t beset by buildings of some sort? Have I ever seen truly pristine beaches?”
I was laying on the beach in the solitude of the night or early morning. A pier being to my right and to my left an expanse of darkness that I know reaches to a jetty and a small inlet at a mile and half to my right, north that is.
The waves are breaking and the warmth of a south Florida summer is upon me; it is heavy and salty and I breath it in richly as some southernly, humid perfume.
Two people are vaguely outlined by the drifting yellow lights of the pier illuminates some 50 yards away, to my right that is. In the obscurity, a light is most noticeable. I see a dark figure entering the surf. I saw the cherry of a cigarette burning. I see the cherry proceed to the sand as the figure waded into the shallows.
What I thought was of litter- how trash is it to litter on a beautiful beach. What struck a second time in my brain as I swigged a tin can was something that followed hence: what would happened then if everyone were to come to this beach to smoke leisurely and carelessly toss a butt in the sand?
The result: thousands of butts accumulating in the sand. I swigged once more, rather more seriously. I swallowed and found my toes digging in moist sand. I imagined myself walking on a bed of cigarette butts.
I thought back to the vulgar man-things action. If the beach perhaps had been swamped by said thousands of careless smokers who toss their butts willy-nilly, I thought, would it be so bad to tread on a carpet of used cigarette filters?
“No, it certainly could be worse” and I swigged the contents of my tin and let it at that.