Every night after turning out my light the covers under my chin a stretch of beach to the north and a veil of trees behind it. Sometimes a tear in the veil and a grassy step up to a knoll big enough for a hut. A place to sleep or to sit inside and look out at the ocean.
Here is Jesus Maria, from Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat (1935):
“I was sleeping on the beach two nights ago,” he said. “Out on the beach near Seaside. In the night the little waves washed a rowboat to the shore. Oh, a nice little rowboat, and the oars were there. Got in and rowed it down to Monterey. It was easily worth twenty dollars, but trade was slow, and I only got seven.” (57)
And from there to Simon Starling’s Shedboatshed (Mobile Architecture No. 2) (2005), but without description or photo.
--Why?
--You’ll just have to trust me.
--Why just?
--Because I’m being fair.
