The beach at the end of the world

An Etiquette Guide for Sluts

At the end of the world, there is a beach.

Beyond the beach, sky.  Grey sky, grey sand, where one begins you cannot tell, where the other ends, likewise.

Walk as far as you like, there’ll be no footprints.  Look back, and it will be as if you’d never been.

You can hear the sea, the wind.  They sing to you in a dark whisper, meaningless.

You tip your head back and see the grey clouds scudding overhead, fast as time-lapse, slow as dawn.

You laugh, you breathe, you take off like a child’s kite, bright and brave and free.  The hand has left the string, or the string the hand, it doesn’t matter.  What does, now?  You are without hope, you don’t need it any more.

Because this is the beach, the one you saw long ago, at the end of the world.

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  1. What can I say? I like your writing, and this and the previous one are examples of why. And they of course lead to the original blog, which has made me late to work because I kept reading it and now writing complementary notes when I should be long gone.

    I did drop an email in your book section (** I think) if you haven’t checked it lately. If you have and just don’t respond to email, no worries — damned if I can be arsed to return email for any reason most of the time myself, so I’ve no room to talk…

    1. Oh, you did? It must have gone to junk, I’ll have a look. Oh yes, etiquette guide. I went there looking for a story. Abandoned it when I lost interest in erotic adventures:) Anyway thank you for sending me an email, when I find it I’ll definitely answer. It’s very encouraging that you really like my stuff. I go to yours to learn about the life I wish I’d had😊

      1. Heh — nice of you to say so, but a good summary of my life would be vast stretches of stone boring, leavened with microscopically rare bits of sheer terror, and indigestible lumps of stuff that really can’t be unseen or undone.

        Oddly enough, in fact, I was telling The Beneficiary a few days ago that I wish I’d spent a lot more of my formative years loafing around the world Doing Stuff like you did/do instead of…well, other things I did instead at that age. But they set my feet on the narrow fractured path to here, so that worked out in the long run. I guess everyone’s life is envied by someone.

        But we make our choices, innit? There’s a reason that making a choice is called “to decide”. “Decide” has the same roots as all the other “-cide” words (Latin: “To cut off”). To “decide” a path cuts away all the other possibilities sprouting out of all the other branches untaken, and all their outcomes. There ain’t any do-overs; even changing one’s mind 10 minutes later would lead to an utterly new outcome than would have happened if done 10 minutes before. (Shrug). It’s how chaos works. Or if you prefer another take: It’s just life.

        The trick is to be happy wherever you wind up, or at least as happy as is possible. This is deeply problematic for a lot of people for a lot of reasons I can’t to into here, and it’s never perfect with anyone.

  2. “I’ve always wanted to live lots of lives instead of the boring old one. Maybe that’s the whole idea😏”

    Ah, the ultimate dream of reincarnationalists. (Is that a word?) But most of them are striving to have do-overs that amount to rewards for being good today. More than a bit of the Buddhist wheel or Judeo-Chrisitian bait-and-switch cons there. (The Buddhists less so, since their ultimate goal is Nirvana which, contrary to most goofball California crystalsunkarmawitches isn’t paradise but, in fact, extinction, permanently climbing OFF the wheel).

    But yours isn’t that — sounds like you’re just curious what other lives would be, and want a run at them. Nothing wrong with that as long as you’d temper your expectations with the truth that we ARE the 1%, which means you’re almost infinitely more likely than not to be born into a short, brutal life that involves termites (from another discussion…)

    1. Oh yeah, I know. And anyway what’s the point of other lives if you can’t remember them. I have an irrational fear that I’ve been punished for my sins, but no real basis…I mean if anyone should be slammed by the weight of their crimes it should be Trump and he seems happy enough. I think I want other people’s lives but only as an observer. I said to my writer’s group one day, wouldn’t you want to live in someone else’s head for a day if you could, just to see what it’s like in there? They all said emphatically no. I don’t understand that.

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