The ocean entrances me and speaks fear into every ebb and flow of my thoughts. If left alone in its center, I suppose I would die of fear before thirst. In small, restrained doses, the ocean may show itself as somewhat docile, even lovely, but as a whole, as I will show, the ocean is an epitome of the sublime. I do not mean to say that all snippets are at all times sublime, or that each of those is sublime to the utmost extent when it is sublime. I mean to say that the ocean, if it gives its tourist a certain unabashed view of itself, can have wrapped around it certain sublimity “not preferred to death.”

The head that raises itself to me first is that encompassing, unending power in the waters. Power looks at me and boasts, and though I have yet to be its helpless victim, the sober truth of my fragility is unchangeable. “I know of nothing sublime, which is not some modification of power.” Is not the ocean powerful? Are not liners and cities and entire coasts destroyed by furious fists of waves? The idea of rag-doll helplessness amidst the waters causes a passionate astonishment, full of horror. If one were forced to tilt his head upward to take in the scale and foreboding might of a towering wave (the last thing he would ever see), he would agree with Burke:

The passion caused by the great and sublime in nature, when those causes operate most powerfully, is astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul, in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror. In this case the mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain any other.

One’s view of the imminent wave gloating before and racing toward him would implant that impassioned astonishment. I daresay the thought of escape would not enter the mind, not because escape is impossible, but because thoughts unrelated to death, drowning, or destruction would be absent. Everything is suppressed. He could only look in astonishment and wait.

Further, the ocean’s obscurity is cause for a meek step backwards. “To make any thing very terrible, obscurity seems in general to be necessary.” Look down over a deck’s railing. Stare into black waters. What wetted monsters swarm below? Quick and hungry, we are but meals to them; at best, we are but pets or toys. And of the waters themselves, the time of their stirring and the advent of the squall are unknown to us, obscure. We are but patients laying in deathbeds, awaiting the cold and unknown black. But contrarily, take your mind to clear, warm shallows. A tropical wade erases doubt and washes fear. Through the waters, we can count our toes in the foreground of the white sand canvas. “When we know the extent of any danger, [and in the clear shallows there appears to be none]… a great deal of apprehension vanishes… How greatly night adds to our dread.” And depth is as night! When deep enough, the purest water is as the darkest night.

Regarding the ocean’s vastness, “Greatness of dimension is a powerful cause of the sublime.” Equally true is the purport that “height is less grand than depth; and… we are more struck at looking down from a precipice,” which in this case is our lonely ship’s deck. Again, look over the railing. Contemplate a dropped coin, sinking through the depths. A day could pass before it hit the floor (and even there, creatures lie in wait!). Dancing and drifting slowly, it is helpless, at the mercy of subsurface torrents. As to the ocean’s length, look to the hazy horizon. See the actual curvature of our unending sphere! From our west coast, say a hello to the Orient and wait the eighteen long hours for a response (provided two strong voices). Though not actually so, the ocean seems infinite. We can not always see its end, nor, turning on heel, its beginning. Clear or murky, we cannot see its bottom. “Infinity has a tendency to fill the mind with that sort of delightful horror, which is the most genuine effect, and truest test of the sublime.” In this infinity, our ship is a thimble, and our bodies, grains of sand. But truest and most intimidating: the ocean does not know the fear that we know all too well.

As I said earlier, the ocean does not always show itself as sublime, nor is it sublime to the highest degree when it is in fact sublime. The ocean may be beautiful and lovely at a small, beached vista or a cove imposing restriction of sight on either side. “The objects of love are spoken of under diminutive epithets.” We may go to a little strip of beach and enjoy a picnic, but I would be hard-pressed if, in the immense expanse of unknown depths and crashing gales and unseen edges, I could grin and enjoy much of anything. Similarly, given that our little strip of beach has calm waters, beauty could be seen. Its smooth tide comes in. Gradual waves float onto the shore. “Beautiful bodies are not composed of angular parts.” But it is not so, the further one moves away from shore and into the ocean’s enraged heart. There, there is tumult. We feel the sharp spray of waves broken upon our smooth hull. And even at rest, the surface is flat, unchanging, with no variation, let alone gradual variation. It is endless expanse.

“The torments which we may be made to suffer, are much greater in their effect on the body and mind, than an pleasures which the most learned voluptuary could suggest.” And so the terror of the storm is more moving than a hundred picnics on a short stretch of sunny beach. The ocean is the sublime. Oh, to condense all our images of oceans into a palpable vision! with their solid faces of rage, their deep secrets divulged only to the angry leviathans and unscrupulous sirens, and their sheer, unrelenting savageries. I could not bear such concentration. “There are very few pains… which are not preferred to death.” The ocean is one such pain.

Where are my jeans,
with stress marks of pale, thin white,
and sex of brown and blue?
Frayed at every end, and twin bellies due
with billfold and key ring.

Where are my boots? Clay forced
upon them, deep underneath their fingernails.
Bound tightly
with laces of sobriety.
Water-tight ships
of voyage and burden.

Where is my dawn?
Invitation to distance,
preview of cold, and
prologue to labor.
Silent herald;
solemn, orange herald.

Where is my dusk?
Awaited release from adulthood.
Safe and anchored rock
amongst the breaks of perspiration.

And where is my woman?
Where is that reason for my working?
Bank of hips and waist,
of voice and of soul,
that I may deposit my wage of toil
and fall asleep beneath her gratitude.

Three bedroom, two full bathrooms, washer, dryer, heat, AC, huge backyard with fire pit, high-speed internet and cable, dishwasher, etc. Main cross streets are Main Street and Athan Avenue. Fifteen minutes from Jessup, via Washington and 65. Total rent is $1200, so four guys would pay $300 each; five would pay $240, etc.

kpruona@gmail.com

Thank you!

Why should I fight?
I know its course, the span of its wings and length of flight.
I will be carried in circles until morning,
then dropped onto dry, hopeful ground.

Today I felt as if I were to dry up the sea and count its salt.
I was charged to spin redwoods on their heals, to walk them across terraces of deer brush.
I asked myself if I could place each grain of sand on one palm and pour them onto the other.
I gave up. I’m cradled now:

My sharp, ocean crags are smooth beneath my step
I do not hold that sand;
instead, she holds me as I walk across her, and we laugh in stride.
I’m folded, knead by knead, into warmth.

I will sleep for a while now.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th’ other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

During this most recent time that I saw him, he had shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair and wore painted-on black jeans and a comparatively baggy black sweatshirt. In general, when he’s not giving someone his full attention or taking a drag or breathing it out, he wears lips that I swear are permanently curved at each corner, as if getting ready to talk or smile at the drop of a hat. I think it’s because he’s just a light-hearted guy to begin with. Taking his perma-smile into consideration, he’s silent and attentive more often than you’d think. That’s not to say that he doesn’t talk or laugh enough. I think he does just enough of each. From what I’ve gathered, he’s about a year older than me, but enjoys living as if he were a few years younger. To tell you the truth, I don’t mind that. I actually appreciate it; at twenty-three, I feel my mind working as if it’s already over the hill, tired and sore. That’s why I left my restlessness in California and drove thirteen hours to Seattle in the middle of July. I was trying to run away from my age, my schedule. My life, filled with its busyness, still managed to feel empty. At the start of any other day, bright California would sneak through my window as if to tell me, “I’m uninvited. Deal with it.” I needed to relax for a change. I worked too much and thought too much (I admit, I still do). I wanted to be young again. But since that’s just not possible, I suppose I can settle with feeling carefree every now and then.

Anyway, It was the Fourth of July, and Ryan and I were standing on his balcony looking over Lake Union. Even in July, Seattle gave us the opportunity for long jeans and two sweatshirts each, which was a welcomed change for me. The hundred-degree California heat had nearly been making me melt into the asphalt of any parking lot I walked across. So, with a breeze on our faces, we looked out toward the water, taking in the minefield of boats and dinghies and kayaks. The grassy hill on the north shore was filled to capacity with patriots and hippies and businesspeople alike eager to be hypnotized by the fireworks. I had never been a big fan of fireworks. They always seemed so trite and childish. Then again, I guess I’m too grown-up to begin with. But on that cool July day when I saw the scene of thousands of Washingtonians with wide-eyed readiness, I expected to see the fireworks a bit differently than I normally would.

As Ryan tended the burgers on his mini Weber barbeque, I offered him a cigarette. He turned to me and showed me that particular smile of his—the one that rarely leaves his face completely. And, like out of an old black and white movie, I lit the cigarette for him.

“Thanks,” he said as he exhaled. I knew he meant it. Cigarettes cost around nine dollars a pack in Washington. He took another grateful drag and breathed out lazily, watching the tugboat push the firework-laden barge into position in the middle of the lake. “I’m really glad you popped in like this. It completely took me by surprise,” he said. “You can stay here any time you’d like, for as long as you’d like. You know that.” I just smiled. At that, I felt like a tired wayfarer, yet a guest in an open home.

Ryan handed off his spatula to a friend so we could spend the next twenty minutes inflating our dinghies. A handful of friends joined us, and, grabbing a couple beers each, we floated toward the crowd already on the lake. I poured my beer in my red Nalgene bottle, tied it to a rope, and hung it over the side of the dinghy. The choppy water kept it cold. Every so often we’d come across a wake that hit hard enough to leap over the edge, sending shivers through our bodies. It was a small price to pay, and the sun kept us warm enough. My smiles were at once wiped off my face when a police boat came around to check on us. It was a routine stop, but in my mind, I was immediately transported to the shore, and, cross-legged and handcuffed, arrested for public consumption. But in reality, as my friends assured me, Seattle isn’t at all like California. Cops aren’t always interested in slapping kids’ wrists for having a little bit of fun—especially on the Fourth. So, back at shore, I took their assertion to heart: we walked to the store for more beer, and I, reveling in my newly accepted freedom, drank deeply as we strolled back down Dexter Avenue with proud confidence. We passed a father, mixed drink in hand, walking with his children. We strangers, yet countrymen and brothers, raised drinks to each other and shouted the day’s mantra: “A-murr-ica!”

By the time we got back to Ryan’s apartment, twenty more people had arrived, most bearing gifts: snacks, beer, beef-tongue soup, firecrackers, and various red-white-and-blue party favors. It was the Fourth, after all, but really, I don’t think we needed any of those things in order to be close. Yes, we enjoyed the excitement of the holiday (even our beer cans had American flags printed on them), but we could have been as sober as a pastor’s pregnant wife and enjoyed each other’s company just the same. What is more, there was a mature, silent dignity in the air. It wasn’t a high-school party. We weren’t giddy, red-faced minors with butterflies in our stomach because our friend’s older brother was able to score us some well vodka.

We all knew that that night, and life as a whole, was about celebration, about relationships, not substances. As the night went on, I began to learn that a little more. Easily sinking into that state of camaraderie and warmth, I spoke with each stranger as if they were my own brother or sister. In a way, they were. We were all related in purpose, in design. Regardless of how long I’d known those new friends, it was love. Anyone under Ryan’s roof, anyone out on his balcony, anyone barbecuing close by, anyone setting off illegal fireworks within a block’s radius of his apartment was family. Whatever I was doing (or not doing), if I had someone standing next to me, one of my brothers or one of my sisters, everything was okay. And that’s what I’ve learned during my jaunts in the Pacific Northwest. The whole area has a way of making me forget what I’m doing tomorrow and telling me not to wonder what I’ll be doing an hour from now. I simply am where I am.

There, in reverie, I recall: My torch, set aflame by Sinai’s fire,
How her lamp glows red from love’s consuming heat!
How love came down and prepared for us a feast.
How we yet live here, coldly.

She’s a virgin with her lamp, held fast to her right.
I, a passerby, rag-wrapped torch at her left.
Her oil burns slowly; mine drips into the sea.
Still I sit at her left side,
As a fiery smile longingly licks to the right.