Posts tagged ‘Phyllis’

September 19, 2011

Phyllis Kuplast – Vacation Town

Description of a town, supposedly in the style of Calvino…

The town sits like an older, relaxed gentleman on his Adirondack chair, in a plot of land composed of fields of grass, rocks jutting outward to the vast, brilliant Atlantic ocean which pulls with each wave hope, clean air, and pleasant, mesmerizing dreams. The plot of land that belongs to this town also has sand, lots of sand that stretches the coast, marrying grass and ocean, jetties and storms. Not many towns have cliffs but this town does. The waves crash upon the rocks of the cliff, constantly storming, constantly harassing the rocks to go away. Centuries of fighting have taken place between those waves and those rocks. I don’t know the score or who is winning, but the cliff is still standing and probably missing a couple rocks after all the years the waves have beat upon it.
There is a beautiful walkway along one of the less intimidating edges of town that meets the water. Rocks climb up the coast meeting the path laid down with cement, and grass continues on the other side. Beyond the grass are houses. Big, massive, coastal houses. Houses that no one really lives in. House people only vacation in. Million dollar houses with priceless views, and fresh salt air to wake up in the morning to. There is never anyone sitting out on the lawns of these houses. Empty brilliant green, well-manicured lawns sit opposite the roaring Atlantic Ocean. Then there are the hotels. A couple of massive hotels protected by black metal fences from any tourists or townie walking by. Lawn chairs take up residence in front of the sea. I hope all the lawn chairs and grass, enjoy the view enough for all the people not sitting in them.
Shops fill up the cove. The cove is home to many things. Many restaurants all of which sell the same seafood dressed up or dressed down in an array of different flavors and cooking styles. There are a couple of artist’s galleries with oddly pretty paintings. One is never sure really of the beauty that was captured on the canvas, because as one turns their head towards the sea beyond the shop they see the real painting for themselves, and they wonder why this artist feels compelled to paint the same scene into almost every frame. The colors rarely change. One feels almost as if they are being fooled, as if they are suppose to find the images beautiful but can only say for certain that there is something lacking.
Then there are the many shops, centers of trinkets made in china. Plastic and cheap. Beaded hemp bracelets. Logos adorn every t-shirt, sweatshirt and hat like pornography: vacationland: I’ve been here! In the summer the tourists mosey. They mosey from shop to shop filled to the rafters with overpriced junk. They mosey to the high fructose corn syrup variety store, reliving their childhoods with every dark caramel sticky bite. The superficial sweetness of a seaside home lost to enterprise.

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