This bit of red-brown sea-life, washed upon the shore of Florida, brings to mind another thatch of life: the pubic patch. Evocative of the erotic, or simply the anatomical, it reeks of briny primordial ooze, as if the very depths of the ocean coughed up the remnants of some cosmic orgasm. It reminds me that life, in all its varied forms, is somehow all connected, that we all come from the same stuff, and return to it in the end.
The wilderness of Florida, where warnings of sting rays and panther crossings sounded in the night, and the potential of losing a dangling foot from a bridge to an alligator is remarkably real, brings me back to the gloriously precarious perch we retain in this world. A tangle of Spanish moss, filled with tiny spiders, waits to hang the unwary passer-by, while the phallic (yet female) pistil of a calla lily protrudes just enough to give rise to other thoughts. Like salty pubic hair glistening in the sun.
