Posh tart. Actually a mousse. With razzle dazzle berries drenched in glaze. Gets my chi up just looking. Pulls me right into the zone. Dusts the cobwebs right outta my head. It would be cool if this were a headland and I a white shorebird. The waves could be lapping or crashing around me. I would bask in the glow of the light. Explore a bit here and there. And feel the whisper of a raspberry violet breeze. Can you imagine the aroma, the whiff of it? As I work the sand between my toes. Oh what painting I would paint with my marks in the sand, what lovely ideas would give birth. Oh sure they may be washed away.Waves can do that we know. But the core of them stay inside until another time, another place where they can take hold. A little shore bird who likes the coast can suddenly find that inland the headlands, the little islands exist in other forms. We carry them with us, our personal joys, our glee to be squishing sand...trust me we will find ways to do it. Once our bodies are whole. The urge to capture the walk again, the up shore and down, to hear the rhythms once more...those don't go away. Sometimes a posh tart can beckon them out, give us a place to run. With violet breezes of form, a golden disk of sand and little white marks that suggest a white shorebird...here, here is a place, let go, let it out for a romp. Then reel yourself back in. Home is still far away. But deep inside, the smile is there for a moment of play. Good art is transporting. It takes us away, or it can give us grounding. Yes, it is for pleasure, but much more than that. Maybe more like touchstones. Look around you. What would you grab if you thought it might all go away?