up against the wall of withdrawl - incident @ bray’s beach

The sand is hot.
On my radio, a love song –
Who gives a fuck about soft, vulnerable people,
yeah, yeah, yeah.

I don’t. I’m giving up smoking.
47 minutes without a cigarette. But who’s counting?

I am.

Low tide. The water looks cold. I’m not going in. Fuck that.
Lying flat on my back, on my towel, naked under a tree. I am alone and chasing a tan.
The flies are bad, could be something dead nearby. Invisible cigarettes litter the backyard of my imagination, clutter my clawing solitude.

It's getting harder to move.

48 minutes.

A cold turkey waddles by. It stops, looks at me and lights up a Camel. Life can be so cruel. I pick up a rock, hurl it at the turkey. It disapppears -
in a puff of smoke, of course.

An hour and ten minutes.

Rolling onto my belly, I survey the scene - yellow crescent of sand,
pandanus palms define my horizon. Behind me, Tabletop Hill recedes into rainforest.



Quiet, secluded.  I am reminded of a postcard, an I Ching coin, ANNE SEXTON!          

(Panic ...)

     
‘Blue, so much blue, the sky breaks. It sags and breathes upon my face ...’


On the radio, another song for the sensitive on this glorious day, up against the wall of withdrawl. I close my eyes as invisible ants gnaw my verterbrae.

What! A sudden noise! A clatter of pebbles! Invaders from Mars! This is Grosz, not Rousseau!
I turn my head, and there, emerging menacing from the forest,

a cigarette!

It stares at me, surprised.
I ready my Zippo.
I move, it turns, I leap to my feet, it flees, I fly, gaining, dive, tackle.
There’s no escape. Flick. Flame.
Fuck.

1 minute.