The State We’re In
A pebble’s perspective.
A long, straight, precise cut and the sea is divided from the pale sky. A solitary sail tacks its edge. A bird wheels. The stones hold their breath under a stab of sun — and, for a moment, every one of the millions of pebbles on this beach shines in the Directors spotlight:
Charcoal gleaming.
Dove grey streaked with hairbreadth white.
Off-white pockmarked beige and dark grey mottled.
Flesh pink marble — black jewels — polished taupe…
Mulberry and chocolate mix layered with imperceptible crystal sheen — and virgin white. Radiant.
Craggy, mid-tone metal hue of zinc, lead and copper chips, centuries smoothed and softened by the rock and the rub of the constant waves.
Here is Homers “wine red sea”- and Greece is over there — over the scalpel horizon where the earth dips into a curve and heads down to Africa…
I regard the pebbles (they avoid my gaze, knowing that I see them now, lumped collectively as “Beach”) and see a people — an ancient tribe, corralled together, herded into a dehumanising lump of non-descript matter edged by fear. No centuries softening for these individuals — no peace — no harmony rhythm where they can show their stripes, their colours — even the odd…
