Sitting nestled in a beach chair between snow and sand, the seasons battle for control of the serene Rhode Island beach while I act like a helpless referee, holding my camera, waiting for something worth lionizing to happen. The grit and the ice continue to fight at my feet, but the sand is gradually losing, and the fire of icy wind envelops it and takes it to a battlefield I cannot see, closer to the shore. I feel like Nero, watching my kingdom disintegrate while I sit, watching the display like a cheep thriller. I leave the chair, which is also being stormed by the whipping wind, and move closer to the action along side the frigid sea.
I inhale the salt air, and it is like I can taste every particle as it rushes down my gullet. The relish of the biting breeze is clear, crisp; I hope the picture I am going to take will be as stunning.
I notice the big whitecaps about to break on the sand at my feet, and just as the wave sloshes in, I snap the shutter on the camera, which has not seen action since I set foot on the hallowed shore. The picture then pops up on the screen for me to survey. I see a large and blurry mix of sand, slat water, wind, and snow. The foamy surf curls across the top of the frame and is interrupted on a diagonal by the sand, which is flecked with bits of rocks and gelid clumps of ice. The only mar in the otherwise gorgeous freeze-frame is the top of my left foot, which protrudes like a sore thumb in the bottom left corner, destroying the moment which I have captured and am holding hostage. Dismayed, I let time go again, and pressing “Delete”, the crazy animal that every clock must keep track of runs away again, back along the shoreline and out with the tide, almost as quickly as it came. Dispirited, but not completely crushed, I return to my lawn chair on top of the golden, wind-swept dune, and I am a Roman emperor again, waiting to document the glory of the city I can only control for so long.