Dobio sam jos jednu nizu kratkih prica koje je napisao moj prijatelj Charlie. Charlie je inace iz Salt Lake-a...a upoznali smo se na Kubi.

The Cuban Sea
A quarter mile into the Caribbean, floating on your back; seeing the clouds
drift by listlessly attempting the next horizon, blowing back to their
origin. As above, so below. The alchemy converges and dies with time. The
sea and sky will always meet, somewhere in the middle, but far away from
anywhere I will ever be. The tired waves and the hopeful drifting clouds are
made of the same molecules after all. Hydrogen, oxygen, some nitrogen, maybe
some of this or that to round it out. Wait for the next peak to start
swimming again. Blue mirrors blue mirrors white and the time of the day
disappears, forgotten in the timeless sea and waiting clouds. The rusting
pole sticking out of the waves, waiting to be touched, half a mile out, was
my only perspective against the blue. Not too far a swim for a day like
this, some good exercise, mental and physical. A day when the only
sensations are the breeze, sun, and the gentle surge of the waves anyway.
One more peak and keep going. There's probably not shark.
Half way there and the receding beach looks model scale; a hotel built on a
curved table top belonging to some eccentric retiree, pulling in social
security checks. Out here I can understand why they thought the earth was
flat. Tiny palms dot the sand. The eccentric gave a soft blow on his palms
to make them sway a little. His miniature sea responds weakly and I rise and
fall with it; nothing extreme, just a normal pattern for the sea this far
out, but only time will tell what it will be made to do next.
I am a miniature on his table, bobbing in his surf; a simple toy for him to
prod, to place where he chooses. Stroke, switch from back stroke to side,
stroke. I'll stay on my side for a while and watch the other horizon where
another sea meets another sky. Presumably another land meets another
dialect, meets a different time; they must be at least an hour behind; they
are hiding behind the curvature, waiting for the sun longer than I do every
morning. All on the giant curved table, down in the eccentric's basement.
Suburbia, I presume. The western lands--Burroughs would be
disappointed--hold no death that I can see today. The eccentric smiles and
moves the heat lamp farther above the table for a better view. To accept the
sea, here on his table is to also accept my hobbies as creation.
The rusty pole comes back into my view as I change to the breast stroke; I
can see the multi-colored rust becoming clearer and larger. Over the brown,
some lighter brown seems to trickle down the side. A giant albatross sits on
top of the pole now, resting before the remainder of its journey. As I
approach it leaves without a sound and continues its old path. I can now see
that a small ladder climbs the way to the top, and barnacles cling to the
sides tightly, trying to stay below the waves. The bottom rung is reachable.
I pull myself from the water rung by rung and eventually can fit my feet
into the narrow openings. The water dripping from my shorts takes the warmth
of the sea from me and the soft breeze begins to seem sharp. The heat lamp,
still directly over head, ticks its way, and beats down, fighting the
humidity. I reach the top of the pole and raise my arms.
"It's me, you old son of a bitch."
The movement of the clouds continues, as does the water, and the now, barely
perceivable palms. I lower my arms, completely unsurprised. I suppose I have
begun to leave his view; I must be near some edge of the table. Maybe the
eccentric couldn't hear me. He's always seemed more interested in the
development of things like hotels, trains, palms; that sort of thing. Maybe
he let his hearing aid batteries die today. I could only guess.
"It's me, you old son of a bitch!" I yell louder this time.
Again, I wait for a moment and feel the breeze, sharper still against my
bare sides. I dive back into the alchemist's ocean to return to his hotel
for a hot shower.