Writing, at least of the kind you don’t bury on your hard drive, is a communicative act. It wants to be read. It is at least partially motivated by hope that your work will be grappled with by other people who take the subject as seriously as you yourself do.
Yes, to this particular sentiment.
When my feet go numb, I get out of the ocean. I can’t figure out why they’re numb, as they’re warm and I’ve been running around trying to catch waves on a boogie board in the middle of a three-day rain-storm. The air is cold but the ocean is the ocean. When you’re used to it, you’re used to it.
I wonder if I have cancer, of course, sitting at the vacant lifeguard outpost where our shoes are. My hands are wrapped around my seemingly body-temperature feet. “I have cancer,” I think. “My feet are never going to regain sensation.”
(This sounds overly dramatic. It is not. Four months ago I flew from Bombay to New York and couldn’t get my left ear to regain somewhat-normal audio processing ability for several months. Matter of fact, it’s still not quite right, and I’d go to a doctor about it, but I haven’t.)
I go to the car and strip out of the wetsuit and put my socks back on, and my shirt and my pants. When I get back to the beach, gray and tobacco, Josh and Jay are walking back from the sea.
I can feel my toes again in thirty minutes. I probably don’t have cancer. Just bad circulation