Sand in Hand

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I went to the beach this morning on my way back from carpooling to take pictures of some art. I was sitting in the sand, and a gentleman who seemed to have been meditating earlier, came over and said I should take pictures of the clouds. I had been so engrossed in looking down that I hadn't noticed the gorgeous cloud patterns; I only noticed that the diffused lighting was perfect.

He inquired about how I made my cards, and how I came up with the Chalk & Slate name.  He called my worked "intricate" and looked at each piece. He assumed that I photocopied the artwork and put the photos on cards. That got me thinking a little bit the rest of the day, because it is tempting. But then I decided that it would defeat the purpose of my whole artistic premise. I am an artist, not a card maker.

After he continued on, I went to close up my camera. I heard the familiar and teeth-grinding sound of sand in the flip-out screen hinge. You know, it never fails. It doesn't matter what you do; if you go to the beach, you become intimate with sand. It's a love-hate for me (not unlike the hate-hate I have for glitter). When I returned to my car and brushed off what I could, I waxed poetic about the ridiculousness of the sandy encounter.

There is none more insidious than the sand of the beach.
Not the roots of the mint, not the suck of the leech.  

To venture the beach is to commune with the sand, 
No matter the safeguard you might have all planned. 

The sand is the Loki of ancient Greek fame, 
Bringing mischief no towel ever shall tame. 

The lens only wishes to capture the beauty, 
But the sand finds the lens ruination its duty. 


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