By Marguerite Kearns
This is what I wrote on Saturday, May 11, 2024…It’s not supposed to be great or pathetic. It’s what emerged from my pen in the aftermath of an optimistic phone blurb. It’s preferable to be optimistic than pessimistic and “negative.” I suppose they have a point, but it’s useless unless it’s part of a discussion…not the entire meal.
It’s heartbreaking, this nearsighted pleasure of industrial sex spread over beaten-up sand. Seize the day by eliminating the past. Kaboom. Beach umbrellas don’t change the exploding sun and a nuclear power plant on Planet Earth. Let’s lie on a beach towel and forget the thrills of nature. Look at what washed up on the open sand—my father’s childhood new sneakers. His mother Gertrude shrieks from a nearby hazy hill and her baked potato has been washed down with a full glass of who knows what. I don’t write headlines for my dad’s life stories. They speak for themselves as a baywatch goes nuclear. Move over, playmate. “The present has more to offer than the past,” she confides. “Let’s frame everything that way. It’s optimistic,” she adds to a promise of a harsh tale of the past.
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