I am art. 

I am the ocean. 

I am a poem, a song, a painting, a sculpture, a landscaped back yard, a cornice on a building, a crown moulding, a
mural, a dance, a scene in a play, a feature film, a digitally re-touched photograph, or a four-year-old's painting of
sunshine. 

You are the audience. 

How do you know me? 

You can stand in the middle of the wheat field in the middle of the prairies, thousands of kilometers from the
coast.  You can neglect me completely. 

You can stand on the mountaintop near sunset facing the brisk breeze, eyes partly shut, glancing shyly at the sea
on the horizon.  You see my colour skewed by the low-angled sunlight.  You know I am there but you cannot see me
move, my whitecaps or tidal shifts.  You cannot taste or smell me or hear my song.  You cannot feel the salt of my
touch, or the liquid of my fluidity.  You know of me, but you don't know me.

You can stand on the beach, barefoot, toes in searing midday sand, facing the waves creeping in and slinking away. 
You can smell me, hear me, and see my true colour with all the life existing in me, but you still stay too far away. 
You can even see people swimming in me, dancing in my tide, charging my withdrawl and retreating my advance. 
You see birds, unafraid, resting on me, diving in me, taking off and landing on me, natural, richly enjoying all I
have for them.  You see boats navigating on me and skiers falling in me, afraid to stay below, eager to get back in
the boat.  They say I am too cold.  At least they will touch me.  But you.  You are still dis

       engaged.

You can sit in your bathing suit on the mud of low tide.  You can wait for me to approach you, force you to know
me.  But when I hint at your toes you move away, afraid I may shock you with my rumoured chill.

or

You can sit in your bathing suit on the mud of low tide.  You can wait for my approach, feel my touch, perhaps I'm
cold, but you get used to me.  My temperature is who I am.  You must submit to me.  I won't change for you.  You
must change from knowing me.  But I retreat.  How do you respond?  I wait and see.  Ebb and flow.  Ebb and flow. 
When I return will you still be there?  You are.  Good.  Thank you.  Without you I'm just the ocean with no
importance beyond just being what I am.  You felt my first wave and stay for the second.  What do you feel?  What
do you smell, can you feel my salt linger on your toes each time I step back?  My tide is coming in.  You stay where
you are.  You know me more, you get used to my chill, you soon forget it completely.  You see my seaweed floating
near you.  You react, dreading its approach or curious of its slimy touch.  Thank you for knowing me.

You can return tomorrow at high tide.  You can wade into me up to your knees until you can endure my chill.  It's
not so bad.  You close your eyes and slightly lose your balance as my waves nudge you to and fro.  You feel the sand
shift between your pruning toes.  You smell my salt, my weeds, my oil slick from others that have sailed through
me.  But nothing above your knees knows me.  Try again tomorrow.

tomorrow

You stand at high tide in me, up to your knees.  You walk into deeper me.  You drop to your neck in me.  Exhale or
your lungs will pop.  You get used to my chill even faster now.  You are almost immersed in me.  Driftwood slivers
bump your shoulders, tiny pin pricks that evaporate instantly.  My tide pulls your body this way and that.  You know
my force.  I'm bigger than you.  The birds know that naturally.  You must learn it.  You swim out deeper where you
can't touch my floor.  You know my surface is warmer and easier than further below.  The sun heats the waves and
whitecaps.  You stay at the surface because I'm just too cold further down.  Too bad.

weeks go by

You finally trust me now.  I'm no longer annoying as my salt clings to you as you leave me.  You don't even shower
right away any more because the thought of my residue on you does not alter your comfort.  My smell does not
repulse you any more as you hear toddlers complaining of my stink.  You learned to swim in the suburban pools of
your youth, but those lessons were designed for you to take me on, you and me, together.  No lifeguards here to
look to for guidance.  Today is the day you dive below, practicing your breath retention so you can remain in the
colder depths of me until you are no longer shocked by leaving the sun-warmed surface.  Your training wheels are
off.  You reach twenty feet below my surface.  Your breath is calmly held.  Your body is firm with my temperature. 
You open your eyes to see mirky, dark hues and faint objects within reach.  You feel slipperyrough of something. 
Grab it!  Surface!  It's a faint string of seaweed with wood twisted in it.  The sunlight aids your discovery.  But it's
not enough.  There's a whole ocean down here.  I'm waiting for you.

No prairie for you.  You know me now.

I am the ocean.

I am art.

Copyright 2000, Stephen Buckley
04/18/00 10:48 pm