Struck by the energy of the new moon rising, I grab my notebook and stumble from my bungalow to the beach. It’s a September night. The temperature is hot af degrees. I mostly enjoy this perk of living in paradise, but tonight, I am a particularly extreme type of drunkish and am sweating out toxins by the heaps. Borderline sleepwalking, it’s as though I am possessed by electric moonbeams. They draw me inward, closer and closer to the sea.

I plop down just before the tide meets the sand. Vodka flavored perspiration acts as an adhesive, gluing tiny shells and rocks to my increasingly thickening thighs and bum. I don’t bother wiping them away, I’m far too concentrated on translating the language of the waves.

The waves speak to me.

It’s as though the moon and the ocean have conspired to wake me. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Back when I was working as a kindergarten teacher in the good ol’ U.S of A, the Gulf of Thailand sang to me in my dreams. My sleeping heartbeat must have been tuned to Koh Phangan’s electromagnetic pulse. The island was the muse responsible for inspiring the sea’s song. If my dreambank serves me right, the lucid waters rippled to the tune of Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name:”

Come to me. Come to me.
I have magic to show you.
Come here your dreams will come true.

Abandoning Trump’s America, I skipped off to the other side of the globe with the intent of catching my dream of being a real life writer. Real life– whatever that is…

Waves waving in my direction, the Pacific beckons for my attention in the here and now. The water’s first language is Thai. My Thai is well below basic. Despite the language barrier, my hand reckons it can make out the message.

The Moon is in cahoots with the ocean like I am with words. She uses the waters to relay her tale to me. I scribble down the the page, transcribing a story in sync with the ocean’s waves. Pen touches to paper. Waves whisper out cosmic secrets. Wrist wriggles its way across straight blue lines. Curly, inky letters dance from the tip of my pen onto white paper– taking shape, making sounds, forming words. At the edge of the planet’s dimple somewhere just above the Earth’s equator smile, modern mythology writes itself into existence.

Tonight the moon is new. I cannot see it, but I can feel it. Illuminated by her invisible glow, I write, write, write.