The Dusty Crackling Shore pt 1
A seaside adventure to keep you on the edge of your seat this memorial day season
Hello beautiful angel,
Welcome home to the lifestyle publication for extradimensional beings of ecstacy! Its a beautiful spring vibe right now and I’m leaning into moving slowly, which is a challenge for me because of my “sacred racecar energy”. If you, like me, call your kitchen the “petrol station”, and if you sometimes feel like you're going so fast you literally don’t even have time to stop and smell ye old roses, just high tail it on out to a flower field and slash your own tires. Oh, you'll be smellin’ roses, alright.
Thankfully, things in the 7th dimension move at the exact pace of harmony. So unbuckle your seatbelts because this ride just got a whole lot more meandering.
Today I got a story for ya. This little number goes out to all you vacationers out there. You know who you are ;)
The Dusty Crackling Shore (part 1)
Faded summer holidays where I was young and the morning air was cold. It was not uncommon to see two dolphins jump in unison, weaving together in the perfect harmony of yin and yang, or so I assumed based on a preliminary reading from an acupuncture pamphlet. The days were long and full of boredom and gum and sticky floors of cheap late-night sandwich shops. The boys were plentiful and they were all lifeguards, a great pack of them who roamed in groups of ten or more, shirtless and swinging their whistles. They appeared unfazed by women, opting to instead focus all of their life force energy on perfectiong whistle tricks. Looking back, they had an amorphous, collective consciousness that I couldn't quite pinpoint at my age. They seemed to hover above the ground, and were imbued with an effervescent, hazy quality.
I awoke every morning to the sound of the vipers, which writhed and wriggled in the fields until the farmers cut their necks with shovels. My sister Daisy would shake me awake most mornings, pummeling the straw of an iced coffee into my mouth. "Time to go!!!!" she would shout, gesturing emphatically to the door. By “go”, she meant to the amusement park, of which she had an abnormal fixation. We went 2-6 times per week, which at the time, I didn’t register as unusual in the slightest. I was in a real 'live and let live' phase, further evidenced by my accustomedness to the rooster farm directly to the left of our summer rental.
To our right was a women's Zumba cult, full of artsy witch aunts who practiced every hour on the hour, with no exceptions except on solstice, when they practiced nonstop, fueled by some kind of popular Zumba vitamin. They weren't all bad, except for their ferocious approach to dating in which they aggressively cruised Devils vs. Angels, saying yes to pretty much everyone unless they had a serious tooth related issue.
I worked part time as a grocer, bagging watermelons and red wine, crackers and fruit snacks. Starchy American treats which would outlive most humans. I made barebones conversation, giving myself full permission to ignore most customers completely, frequently ducking under the cashiers stand to take large slurps of my Piño Colado. "This is the life," I thought to myself as I glugged. Being drunk at work was no problem, as long as I remembered to unplug the fans at night and feed the monkeys.
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My nights were spent at Jerby Disko, the only beach club in the whole town, which had been started by a German couple, who were dismayed by the lack of “party” in this meagerly populated town. Shockingly, a new headliner was featured every night, and there were no repeats. Most club-goers were absolutely synchronized in their movements, and the drinks were free. Well, one drink. Jerkade, which was a crude punch which offered nothing to the senses except the potential to blur them out in the future.
In the evenings after dinner, I would sit with my sister on the cramped porch of our rental, which overlooked the marsh. The setting sun illuminated the wriggling vipers, and they took on an otherworldly beauty. My sister would braid my hair, implementing a technique she had invented. In those days, she still aspired to go to cosmetology school, having not yet folded her expansive dreams into the small suitcase of door-to-door mustard sales that she would later choose. In those days, I admired her, with her glistening cheeks and upward drifting eyes. The sounds of the cicadas with gently start to overpower the loud chanting coming from the Zumba cult, and eventually, would be all that we could hear.
There came a day when the town became overrun with fishermen. Men in yellow rubbery jackets, long white beards. They were clambering to catch a fraction of the saltwater trout run, an event which only occurred every millenium or so. Coined, "the salt rush" by locals, the influx of fishermen caused great disruption to the local economy. Their presence, in fact, was so disruptive, it caused a huge political rift. It was a town divided, pro-capitalist salt rushers and local down-home boys, eager to keep the sleepy seaside town the same. Mayoral candidate Joonest B. Joonest emerged as a frontrunner for the down-home boys, advocating for better protections against fishermen masquerading as nail technicians (a common decoy the fishermen employed). Joonest also advocated for a volunteer-run department assigned to uncover fishermen in drag (another common hiding technique). Critics argued that Joonest didn't actually address the root of the problem, and his directives to go after the fishermen's masquerading techniques was simply a distraction itself, so that he could direct the town budget into a hot dog fund for himself. "Why would I, an earnest man, need a whole fund for hot dogs?" Joonest queried, shoving the red and white chekered wrapper deeper into his pocket.
To be continued……
Thanks for reading, my love! Tune in next week for the bone-chilling conclusion
Xoxoxooxoxoxox7oooxo7
Mollz
PS. Peep this cool 7th dimensional ring I just made ✨ My first silver and bronze collection will be releasing soon. More to come ❤️🔥
Another masterpiece