I am a relative latecomer to the musical stylings of Elliott Smith, he of Portland music fame, and he is my favorite to listen to by far. By FAR. Particular songs send me, "No Name #3" being the headliner these days. He went to my old high school, too, but long after I sullenly roamed its halls. I bet he was sullen, too. It is extra sad when a musician so sensitive and talented has to go and kill himself. I guess all committers of suicide are extra sad if you know them and you have a sense of what more they might have contributed through their art. It is hard to imagine being so utterly bereft that there would seem to be no better way around or through a bad situation. I've had my own share of black thoughts, certainly, but none of the actual thinking-throughs of how to do it. How to go the extra mile, as it were.

What I remember most about high school was feeling incredibly, desperately self-conscious. I felt like cameras were pointed at me every minute with no rest, and that the operator(s) on the other side of the lens were finding fault with every single element of my being. No wonder I was so anxious and unhappy. It was a tough time. But I don't remember suicide seeming like much of an actual option.

It is now the weekend. It is Saturday night, and I want to read and watch TV and do the laundry. But I have numberless small assignments to read. Of course there is tomorrow. And the tasks for Sunday are also myriad.

What would it be like to just pick up and move to a far country, where these mundane responsibilities wouldn't exist? Although I guess mundane responsibilities exist in exotic locations, too. Bills have to be paid. Difficult people have to be dealt with. Decisions to do the homework rather than take the nap come up the same way that they do here.

I would like to float in the ocean for a while, though. That would be calming and enjoyable. The Pacific off Maui is a good place to start, although I could be content with Oahu. I wonder if San Diego has any similarly relaxing beaches for gentle swimming? We should check that out come the next Comic-Con. Maybe I will. I'll ditch the comic-mongers and go swirl my toes in the sand, under an umbrella. Then out to the salt water. Lovely, buoyant ocean water. Like that ode to salt by Pablo Neruda that I hadn't heard before yesterday. What a cool ode that is.



Ode to Salt

This salt
in the salt cellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me
but
it sings
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those
solitudes
when I heard
the voice
of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a
broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.
And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food.
Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste finitude.