Sometimes there’s nowhere to hide

Summary

The text reflects on the introspective journey of a writer who grapples with personal truths, the act of hiding, and the search for connection, culminating in a moment of clarity at Ocean Beach.

Abstract

The author, a writer with a penchant for creative lying and dreaming, recounts a period of wandering and self-discovery. They stand at the threshold of dreams, seeking an alternative way of living that is not easily articulated to those who inquire about their whereabouts. The writer describes being beside the surf, yearning for unspoken words and salty kisses, and speaks of a time when they kept their head down, avoiding sharing their personal progressions. The narrative reveals the writer's struggle with loneliness, fear, and rejection, yet they maintain a connection with their audience. The writer, identifying as a renegade and destroyer of life's truths, finds solace in the anonymity of their role. The journey leads them to San Francisco, where an encounter with a young surfer at Ocean Beach prompts reflection on their own past and identity. The writer ultimately finds grounding in the love of another, suggesting that life's answers can be found in human connection rather than in the pursuit of self-concealment.

Opinions

The writer views themselves as a wanderer and creative liar, suggesting a complex relationship with truth and self-expression.
There is a sense of longing for connection and understanding, as the writer listens for unspoken words and hopes for salty kisses.
The writer feels a disconnect from those who expect straightforward answers about their life, emphasizing the depth and complexity of their experiences.
The act of hiding is a significant theme, as the writer identifies as a natural hider yet acknowledges that this does not fully separate them from their audience.
The encounter with the surfer at Ocean Beach serves as a metaphor for the writer's own struggle with the currents of life and the pursuit of thrilling, albeit fleeting, moments of clarity.
The writer's journey is marked by a transition from hiding to embracing their identity and the love of someone who accepts them, indicating a personal evolution and a newfound sense of self.

A punch of truth to the stomach

Image: Author

Where have you been? Is a question posed by someone who knows everything about me except my needs as a writer? I could have said anywhere, nothing true of course.

You can’t ask a wanderer, a creative liar, a man being always on the threshold of a dream…looking for another way to live…where he has been. What would he say? Traveling through sorrow, no ticket bought, no destination planned, reading poetry?

Where have I been?

Another time, place, for sure. Keeping my head down, turning away, my back to the audience, my secret still-secret…not sharing news that I’ve moved on to something or someone. A man with no name backing off nature’s stage without speaking a first-line…backing out of view without talking about loneliness, fear, and rejection…that’s just how writers talk.

But more than a writer, I’ve been a renegade, a destroyer of life’s truth, a natural hider, yet nothing so deep it separates me from my audience. They come, they read, they don’t care where I’ve been.

Where were you?

What should I tell? Lost? I’m never going to say that. Instinctively, I turn away from this seemingly forever time, this forever place.

I know who I am, finally. I have the genes made up of the beast, but this beast has made good.

I got out of the plane in San Francisco, hugged Frank, and headed to Ocean Beach. I parked the rental car next to a Volkswagen camper, behind which a strawberry haired young man was getting into a wet suit. Ten minutes later, he walked across the beach to the water’s edge, the Pacific cheering heartily for him.

The ocean is cold, the drop off steep, the undertow too strong for swimmers. The young surfer paddled hard. He got another twenty feet, then disappeared. I waited for him to bob up, he did. He paddled his strong arms, fighting the current, then far out he straddled the board, waiting. A wave, bursting with energy, scooped him up. He stood on the ocean, daring the stallion wave to drag him from his thrilling ride.

I walked away, trying to remember an hour back, yesterday, or the way it felt before I left the image of who I believed myself to be.

Arriving in Missouri, the question is not asked. Life’s answer to where I’ve been found in the arms of the one who loves me.