Waves of Mutilation (Intake demo mix)

i used to swim out to where the waves were sashaying swells of glittering darkness. every so often, there'd be that one out in the distance that looked more like a wall than a hill, and i'd feel the undertow tugging me gently, then firmly, and finally irresistibly backwards into its approach. When a big wave like that comes yr supposed to turn around and dive into it, but if my eagle eye spotted it out far enough, id try to swim and stagger my way to shore to get away from its thundering approach. I fronted like I wanted to ride it in but really I was scurred silly and panicking about making it back—in the process I put myself in more danger as I flailed about where the waves broke, and where the potential for being crushed increased.

My family spent a lot of time at the shore and i never let on about the intensity of my fascination and fear with the ocean. Year after year I forced myself to swim in it, forgoing the hypnotizing pleasure of standing on the shore and watching the surf. It went beyond wanting to be like the other kids--it was as tho i felt guilty for the special hold the ocean had on me--sometimes I'd wake up at dawn and sneak out down the street to the beach, where I could gaze out undisturbed at the endlessness. Something out there was speaking to me--something out there wanted to tell me everything awful and wonderful in the world.

A few years later I discovered alcohol and duplicatd this exact same brand of extreme terror and joy--wrapped in the secret guilt of knowing i wasn't like others, who could take it or leave it--with whiskey, wine, vodka and beer.

Years after that I recapitulated and posed Sterling Fassbinder on the shoreline at high tide, where she suddenly recalled the long ago death of her forgotten twin brother, a horror she witnessed and repressed for many years.

And years later still I have dreams with waves like walls far off in the distance, gaining speed and height, filled with sound and fury, and signifying nothing.