The beach - prose. (Edit 2)

[Todd]

Hey AJ,

Yeah edits are usually tougher than the original write. Some comments on this for you:

The beach. Edit 1.
Before a wave breaks upon the shore, she sags, resigned--I wonder if resigned is necessary. Would she sags in her defeat get you there too. Just a thought in her defeat. From above, high blue shines his benevolence down upon her--upon her may be unnecessary and behind her the cliff face offers a sanctuary of shade, whilst on either side, her sisters sing uplifting songs.--no real issues with the rest of this opening. It reads smoothly. Self revile is written in stark, scrawling etch marks across her flanks.--A couple quick things while I realize that it is technically correct to use flanks for a person. I tend to associate the word more often with an animal. I'd consider, though this is probably pure preference on my part, a substitution. Also, self revile is written feels like awkward phrasing. I get the sense that she has cut herself repeatedly. Revile usually implies words being used against someone. I don't get the sense she's carving words upon herself just marks. Marked with the scars of her own self-hatred maybe or something to that effect. Upon her breast, scars bare open witness to her regret.--this part here might be adequate. Oily ooze collects in the gutters--gutters might be right but feels a little off for a beach. I think of home gutters. What I should probably think of are those half buried pipes that carry away waste (not sure what they're called, but I've seen them on beaches enough. Here's where you tell me those are gutters Todd made by those who have defiled her. Lifeless and listless--I would just use one descriptor. I think listless gets you there she lies abandoned. In the gutters of her condition, a miniature representation of her existence is played out, as grains of sand float across the oily expanse,--Oily has already been mentioned. I don't think you need the repetition. like the crusted tears of a turtle,--I like this image they collect and bind together in a gritty conglomerate caught in the cross wind of a recession, swirling in eddies and whirlpools of random chance--Maybe, in seeming random chance, before they make a bid for their final goal and strike out for the other shore. From the depths within, countless tears well up. Pushing past a countless multitude of individual sand grains, and making tract of confessional disclosure.--You could possibly cut from the depths within. You could also do away with the second instance of countless since multitude alone gets you there First a trickle, then a stream – a constant flow. Drawn by a force unseen. Running over her defilement, down her face and sides, filling the scars left by sharp implements--More specific, something common knife/razor and something uncommon paper clip whatever and boots, colouring her pale and drawn complexion--again if you can try to settle on one modifier - a dark blush, of a passionate outpouring that cannot not be held in.--The double negative causes us to pause in the reading. Maybe more simple a dark blush that cannot be hidden Running over, running down; cutting a swath across all that has eroded and covered her beauty.--Maybe simplify after all...her eroded beauty Like a breach in a dam, it will not be contained and in gathering assertiveness, the tide of tears smoothes a path through the debris and leads her thoughts back to the desire of her heart. In the last rays of the evening light, pools--Maybe more specifically tide pools collect and reflect a secret identity, seen through the mirror which high blue holds to her face, her reflection --I like this but it feels like it would be more effective pared down a little after identity maybe a glimmer that shines (and continue from there) glimmers and shines with a beauty that surpasses all that she currently could be. Deep reservoirs of a promise of hiddeness yet to be discovered.--I think "of promise" cut of hiddeness Her check is brushed and caressed--caressed should be enough by a soft word carried on the wind. She responds. Reminded of things past and yet to come. Of a need, of a longing; a part of her, yet a separate identity. (*) Again she hears a soft urging carried--don't think you need carried here upon the wind. A word of imminent change. The wind has changed direction and she is lifted. There… she sees him,… rising and swelling to meet her, advancing with a boldness that swallows the distance between them. Tenderly her--typo lays claim to each newly gained position. His advances leave her craving his touch, but with each stroke he temporarily withdraws. Unable to contain her desire for him, grains of longing are cut loose from her being and move back and forth in the delicate dance of Mahanaim - two camps joined. The lover and the loved. Joined together, her feet forever covered by the hem of his garment.--Nice touch. Nice allusion to the woman with the issue of blood Unwilling and unable to let go. Near even when drawn apart. Caressing her forgotten outer limits, he gives each and every part of her equal attention and like a homecoming, in a rush, it all comes back to her. The allure of him, his touch, his fragrance, his embrace. Like a leaf bud breaking out of its casket of darkness, she relives her last awakening. The initial cold tingle of semi fear at the first exposure, then the mingling warmth of loves--love's first touch. The burning, urgent heat--you don't need burning if you have heat of growth. The full and replete repose at love’s high tide. Then the encroaching darkness, that empty feeling at his withdrawing--maybe keep with the imagery as his presence ebbs, from which her memory hides. She opens herself up to him, the hem of her skirt lifting and falling in rhythm to his advances. They sigh in unison as they draw together and bond like chemical elements, melting one into the other. Now gathering himself, he breaks upon her awareness and within the flood comes identity. Again and again he breaks and invades her barriers and strongholds. Each fresh wave bringing revelation, forgotten treasure and vitality. He covers her and they are hidden together. Her desolation and barrenness removed. Clearing away the debris and shame, she glows and shines.--I know I'm a broken record glows and shines doesn't add enough difference to justify both being there The shallow pools are --now deep wells of water, full of life and health. The crumbling edges of her boundaries have been strengthened and the gaps in her understanding are--can probably cut are made new. Every part of her being is restored and filled with intimacy. Every stone gently lifted and turned, every scar caressed and smoothed. A sifting through every layer, until she is known. Holding each other, totally immersed and intermingled. There they stay, but for the constant pull of his celestial heart beat--in this case probably one word heartbeat, which is ever drawing the event horizon of time to the turning point. For one perfect moment they hold each other in complete union. Each fully sated and requited. For nothing was withheld and no part was despised. For but one heart beat in eternity they are one; then almost imperceptibly at first, then more wretchedly so, they are pulled apart. The governing laws of this world and the order of things not in accord with their desires, their joined hearts not part of the equation. She is to be accountable and held once more, by that from which she stole and was stolen. But to whom does she belong? With his passing she glows and shines.--Not liking the exact repetition here No longer gutted and empty, but full and resplendent. Yet she weeps. Every sifted layer mourns and yearns for his return.--again a lot of ____ and _____ construction. I'm not saying it can't work but in each case can one word do the work of both? How long will he be? Deep within she hides a portion of him retained--don't think you need retained. Stored in anticipation of the dry times to come. A treasure within. The weeping continues, and the walls of her wells begin to crumble and weaken. Yet there is still comfort. The feel of him, his scent and flavour, his touch, are all there encompassed and embodied within the stream; which cuts a swath across that which she is not.
(Written on Lady bay beach – Guernsey – 98)


(* - Still might need to supply extra images here as suggested by Todd, but got stuck on this section so i've posted what i've got to date. - Found it harder to do the edit than i did the original write!).

I think its a definite step forward. I liked the flow better. I hope these last set of comments will be helpful.

Best,

Todd