Come Let Go

This post is spontaneously inspired by the song playing on my music box right now. Following a reggae, Jamaican flow, Xavier Rudd introduces me to me first non-Bob-Marley reggae piece. The song is called “Come Let Go” and, although it plays as gentle background music on this snowy Sunday morning, it reminds me of California and the beaches. I don’t even have to close my eyes and yet I can still see the colours of the blue that start in the sky far across the horizon. It drips down like fresh paint, slowly changing colours as the sun rises higher in the morning sky. The Electric blue sky mixes with the sun and the water and if I stare at it long enough I feel almost hypnotized and completely mind freaked. (However, this is California we’re imagining and there is a lot or marijuana there, so that could contribute to the complete dazing out on the ocean-sky.) I like to pick a wave as far out as I can see and then I follow it as it slowly builds and falls and rises again and then with much pent up anticipation it breaks – occasionally a surfer  suddenly appears and rides the wave before it comes crashing down. Although it looks like the water has finished it’s route, it still continues. It continues to turn in circles underneath the surface picking up shells and pebbles and sand. The energy joins together to create another little wave that breaks closer to shore; this time not ocean-sky-blue but instead its blue and green, grey and sandy brown, full of colours and emotions of hope and reassurance and sadness and see-you-laters. It mixes it all together to create a soft mud before laughing and chasing squealing children or romantic lovers up the shore. That’s where I stayed. On the shore. I can picture myself sitting on the sand with my flip-flops or cowboys boots next to me; I wear the same thing for the most part on the Los Angeles beaches: yellow bikini bottoms under old cut off jean short, a red bikini top covered with a black and grey loose long sleeve “Bubba Shrimp” shirt I picked up on a windy afternoon from the Santa Monica Pier. My usual position is feet buried in the sand and knees hugged up to my chest. There I comfortably sit and stare at the surfers and the ocean and the sky. I wish to be the surfer in control of the powerful wave. I wish to be the couple walking in ankle deep splashes. I wish to be on every plane that crossed the sky.
I wished and dreamt and over thought.
Once in a while, I would play music to start my tears- girls just need to cry sometimes and sitting on a beach, alone, confused, slightly scared, and completely uncertain about life choices, makes for a great cry if accompanied by great music. Very rarely was that music reggae but on the days i left my ipod in the hostel, I would sit closer to the surf-shack and in the mix of top 40 hits, a song with the “dude its totally thranshin out there man. so gnarly lets rip some waves” vibe would come on. I liked to pause whatever I was doing at that point and just sit and stop over thinking. I’d just let go of all my thought balloons and let the strings they were tied to slowly unravel. They would float away into the ocean-sky and for a few minutes I looked like a stoner totally zoned out. The song would end and I quickly wound all the thought balloons back to me and the music changed into things I could ignore again. 
I like my California mornings. I don’t surf very well, but I buy a Canadian surf magazine and read of people I’ve never heard of before and places I decide I want to go. I like to look at the pictures and imagine being in all those wonderful places. 
One Day. One day I’ll be there, sitting on those beaches, writing to the soundtrack of seagulls and waves and tourists. Until then, I guess I’ll just lose myself in the photographs, turn on a mix of reggae, and let go. 

Happy Remembrance Day, World. 
Lest We Forget. 

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