Sunday, i watched the waves at Cuckmere, looked for fossils in the middle of the rocks. I was reminded of Dungeness, with it's glow in the dark country, it's power station blues. Those pink grey vistas kill me, they eat into your skin with their glory, leave you bitterly fed, broken and alive. And that is how it should be. Beauty like the corpse of an angel.
The sky line that blends from all those blackened sea side towns - Brighton, Peacehaven, Newhaven, Seaford, Birling Gap and all along to Eastbourne, flickers with death. The colours are all too dense, heavy, bright. I love that stretch of coast, and the pinnacle is Beachy Head, rising like a white cut demon from the sea. The straightest cliff before Dover, and you don't have to look too hard to find the tiny crosses in the grass, dessicated flowers for those who fell, jumped, and were pushed, over the edge.
We got our boots wet, and heaved stoutly with cold. The light was fading, but not too fast, and i could still see the houses on the cliff edge. We talked about black and white photos and what you think about when you are eleven. We tried to talk about infinity and the cosmos, but I just got confused, stumbling over my words and feeling silly. So we talked about a funeral instead, and animal rights.
I wonder if beauty can ever come without a price. Or was the price always already there, before beauty was even a twinkle in our eye?
The hills are soft, the river winding. But fences show us where we can and cannot go, these green spots hide the tears and fighting, the nearby country pub is full of fake charm and malice, they built "Tandoori Cottage" on the homes of badgers.
I love charcoal skies, barren beaches. I love walking with someone you like, when you can feel alone but together, together but alone. We were both happy as we greeted the bus to take us home. The moon was rising behind our heads as we sped off up country lanes, and i saw a shooting star. Away from Eastbourne, back to the living town life.
That evening, we ate Thai food and warmed our toes in the half light of L's bedroom. She had an altogether darker glow about her than us, upright in front of the window like a wax chinese doll, wanting Nick Cave, not happy sea side stories. So we all talked about why everyone we knew was fucked up, and it dawned on me that meant I must be too.
I was filled with sea breezes and mulled wine. And I love the people I am with. And this is no country idyll.