Beautiful things, beach rocks.
Tactile, smooth, cool, elemental, substantial, reassuring, eternal.
Sculptured fragments of the matrix of the planet, moulded by aeons.
They are tangible paradigms of wisdom; their angularity, sharpness and brittleness long ago worn away at the rhythmic insistence of the currents and waves.
They are somber witnesses to the repetitive, ephemeral aggregation and dissolution of molecules which constitute the other members of the natural trinity - animal and vegetable - their dignified stillness contrasting starkly with the frenetic activity and futile endeavours of living things.
They were here before all our fathers and will be here after all our sons. They alone endure.
Our borrowed molecules belong to the earth, like the rivers, the wind, the snow, the falling rain, and must be returned to the earth to again become part of everything.
Even our genes, for which our fleeting incarnations provide a temporary vehicle, have only conditional immortality, based on extravagant redundancy. Our behaviour is driven by these microscopic tyrants with their basic commands - Survive! Reproduce! - compelling everything we do.
And in the involutional phases of our lives, the bizarre compulsion to have genital contact with others abating, we think "What the fuck was that all about?"
I have, without conscious intention, collected several beach rocks over the years, including a beautiful pink and grey stratified rock from Glenelg - shaped in the Sound of Sleat - and a smooth black stone from Byron Bay, the home of my childhood.
They are small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, soothing and comforting to hold - like testicles, only more socially acceptable - a communion with my past and with the beginning and end of time.
They were here before all our fathers and will be here after all our sons. They alone endure.
Our borrowed molecules belong to the earth, like the rivers, the wind, the snow, the falling rain, and must be returned to the earth to again become part of everything.
Even our genes, for which our fleeting incarnations provide a temporary vehicle, have only conditional immortality, based on extravagant redundancy. Our behaviour is driven by these microscopic tyrants with their basic commands - Survive! Reproduce! - compelling everything we do.
And in the involutional phases of our lives, the bizarre compulsion to have genital contact with others abating, we think "What the fuck was that all about?"
I have, without conscious intention, collected several beach rocks over the years, including a beautiful pink and grey stratified rock from Glenelg - shaped in the Sound of Sleat - and a smooth black stone from Byron Bay, the home of my childhood.
They are small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, soothing and comforting to hold - like testicles, only more socially acceptable - a communion with my past and with the beginning and end of time.
Well, there it is.
My final assessment of life after my allotted three score years and ten.
Only then can our borrowed molecules return to the earth with dignity, to again become part of everything.
But before we do, we should reflect on the intrinsic questions posed by the very presence of these decorative beach baubles.
Meanwhile, I am relaxed and comfortable, enjoying my pints and watching, with some bemusement, the world going to hell in a basket.
My final assessment of life after my allotted three score years and ten.
And what can we do?
We can stop being so bloody passive.
We should follow Dylan Thomas and burn and rave at the close of day, raging against the dying of the light.
Whatever happened to NOT going gentle into that good night?
Are we all as passive as beach rocks?
We can open our windows and emulate Howard Beale.
We can be as mad as hell.
We can refuse to take it anymore. Only then can our borrowed molecules return to the earth with dignity, to again become part of everything.
But before we do, we should reflect on the intrinsic questions posed by the very presence of these decorative beach baubles.
- Where do very small beach rocks come from?
- Have they always been tiny, or are they the most ancient rocks of all?
- Do beach rocks come in different sizes and stay that way, or do all beach rocks end up like this, ground down to minutiae?
- If they are the last remnants of once grander rocks, where do their replacements come from?
- Why haven't they all disappeared by now?
- If they are ground down to sludge, why is the sea crystal clear?
- Do they just become part of the primeval soup, just like us?
- Is that what immortality means?
Meanwhile, I am relaxed and comfortable, enjoying my pints and watching, with some bemusement, the world going to hell in a basket.