‘The wave says you're as soft as a rock’
Did you know there are more galaxies than grains of sand on Earth?
thoughts
about smallness
the fate of the earth
sand under a microscope
thoughts
about how to go on
I spent two weeks alone in an old cottage, looking out to sea; the only thing between me and the headland was a stretch of lush grass where rich folk would come, morning and evening, with their assortment of hounds and Barbour jackets. August. I found the isolation confronting, although I went there already feeling so lonely. This has been going on for some time. I didn’t know what that experience gave me at the time; that came later. I’m only realising it now, as I write this. Now the paintings are made. Feelings churn under the calm surface but I see a crest coming. I’ll swim right through it.
One million grains of sand look something like a teaspoon full, maybe two; I guess it depends on the fineness of the grains. The sand from Portsea is very fine. Like the neighbours?
I like facts; they’re like comfy slippers. But I can’t tell you what Truth is. Not all of these things are facts.
I’m a bit obsessed with rocks. Before he retired, my father was a geophysicist. He used to take me hiking and explain how the landscape was formed and the names of the rocks. Every two years he’d spend three months aboard the Rig Seismic as part of his job, a rock man floating on water. I always liked the name of that vessel. Dad hated the seasickness.
I wasn’t great at physics but I aced geology.
Sand isn’t all rocks of course, but this sand is, for the most part. Soft, silky rocks. A friend let me look at it under her fancy microscope. All rocks except for a single shape: a pointy object with three axes – a triactinal spicule, the siliceous skeleton of a sponge. I had no idea sponges had skeletons. You have no idea how many Google searches it took for me to find that out.
I don’t know how much sand is on these walls. I haven’t had time to count the grains. It’ll be in the billions though. Billions of grains, and all different.
I didn’t plan it this way. I didn’t know what I’d done until I’d done it. In that cottage, I had dark and light thoughts. I felt repression and freedom. I loved the silence and ended up hating the isolation. I tried using only black and white, but things are not black and white. It didn’t feel good to me. I found pleasure in colour. No matter how sad things get there’s joy somewhere, in everyday things.
The moon pulls the oceans on both sides, making the earth look like an eye. An eye that cannot see itself.
I know what it is to be alone, in a big city on the other side of the world. I know what it is to feel alone in your own home. When you’re in that space it feels like it will never end. Things are changing now. There’s a shift occurring that’s been going on for a while. Sometimes I still feel like an outsider looking in.
I’m trying to flow more. I’m trying not to push so hard. What I thought were victories left me holding on to things I didn’t want. Not everything is worth fighting for.
I don’t like the beach - I’d sooner be in the mountains. But I do like to be underwater. I’m a water carrier who likes to be carried.
dark through lightness
a shimmering horizon
fading light
To think like a wave, repeat without end but always changing. A huge, comforting feeling of smallness. I will be as strong and as soft as a rock. I will become a single grain of sand with 7.5 sextillion others for company.
Did I say too much?
Rebecca Willcox, June 2023