Yeah, I suppose I am a bit aghast at the Brexit debacle. Mildly worked up about Donald Trump. Vaguely troubled by all sorts of global things, I suppose.
When I am reminded. Or the news comes on.
Just don’t mess with the North Beach in Rush.
Because now I am rooted in silent, bludgeoned dismay, a marooned and lonely sea stack finally aware of its weathering disintegration, and the end of all things coming. Why? Fingal Council has unleashed that tractor turning machine of theirs on my beloved beach.
In the name of cleaning up the beach, this blundering, thundering machine ploughs up and down, whirring and spinning.
In the end, we are left with a vast, beige flatbed free of curve, charm, quirk or colour.
I just abhor it. Hate to see nature’s routine masterpiece thoughtlessly flipped by a thudding metal bucket, each grain, sliver and frond ferociously clawed clear of context or history, and reassembled with such precise indifference.
What I love is the inexhaustible kaleidoscopic reconfiguration and fantastic reshaping of every sandy corner and contour, each carelessly and carefully repositioned barnacle or seaweed tress a fresh marvel to behold.
A pop-up seaside landscape spun from a remote 3-D printer. To feel this landscape under my feet as I walk barefoot and my toes tremble in the still warm water shimmering in those wave-crimped ridges left by the retreating tide.
Machine and man finish their work and there’s just time for a satisfied flask of tea and a smoke before lurching off to lay down another such meadow without pattern, point or purpose on another beach.
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