Ceremony
Melissa Sweat
November 2005
November 2005
Somehow I had made it to the ocean. It was 8 a.m. I rolled up my jeans to dip my toes in the water, but got wet up to my knees.
It always happens that way.
The scent of the sea reminded me of the beaches back home. The smells are pretty much the same: rank, rotting seaweed carcasses, metallic, salty breezes. But it's still so different here, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise. Something in the climate, the pretense of clear skies as the smog looms at my back. The littered beach cordoned by concrete strands and parking lots. This place unsteadies me like the tides. I want to drink the whole ocean up like tonic water...
That morning I left Lana's house like a thief. Quietly tying my shoelaces, I took one more look at the sleeping body curled up on the blue, wine-stained couch. He had early morning stubble and his face was red and puffy. He was a stranger to me now.
I finished with my shoes and remembered something I had forgot. "Have you been hiking or something?" the body had smartly remarked as he struggled to untie my double-knotted New Balances. "Yeah," I replied, and took off my bra to help him...
I'd been all over town last night, haunting buses, staring at strangers, trying to piece something together, this city? me? I was heading home when my phone rang. Lana's boyfriend had cheated on her, so of course, I had to meet her for a drink. I hopped on the 1 toward Santa Monica where I met Lana and two of her guy friends at Renee's. I thought their names were Tom and Colin, but they weren't. One drink led to two, three, then we bought a cheap case of beer at 7-11 and soon we were at Lana's playing drinking games till we couldn't count our cards anymore and nothing mattered...
And now I'm all wet and sandy, with a headache.
Last night, I'd planned to go home to a healthy evening, resolved to start over, a ceremony I'd repeated many times before. But my plans laid crumpled and tossed. I thought of the note I left on my pillow yesterday: "Do 20 push ups and 100 sit ups. You can do it!," a benign smiley face drawn beneath.
I put on my shoes to head home, and as I left the beach I couldn't help but laugh. I knew I'd be back here again.
Melissa Sweat was born in 1983 (in San Jose, CA), where she mercilessly banged her head against her mother's womb in her stubborn attempt to escape. To the relief of her mother, her belly was cut and baby Melissa was pulled out, bruised and red faced. Her entering into the world would be a cheap, yet apt metaphor for her life. Ask her and she'll tell you all about it.