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The sun rose over a bone-filled beach on the Salton Sea, shining on rusting art installations, trash, and everything that lies in between. The only living beings on the sand that morning were a black Labrador and a surfer: Sunny, who surfed not the sulfuric water but the world.
This he did without leaving much the smallest church of Bombay Beach, which Sunny took care of and guarded with all his life. Ruffians, who dared to scatter his doodle rocks (that he gave to children as souvenirs) or break the humble stone-wood benches he built (upon which many a prayer said, meditation sat, and lover serenaded); they risked the full fiery wrath of Sunny. A trained warrior, a living weapon formerly belonging to the dreaded principalities, he reserved his infinite varieties of torture and death for those foolish enough to test his patience for malice; to those who tested his patience for stupidity, he withheld the secrets and warnings of Bombay Beach, laughing as they sat on seemingly innocent couches where an innumerable host of furry fiends had left their scented marks.
Sunny feeds tortillas to the seagulls and gives them names, recognizing each one by physical qualities that none but him take note of. Big Feet here, Long Beak there… to me, they all look the same. Rats with wings. Perhaps a tenure in the bare-boned, wind-bled Church conditions one to a peculiar breed of appreciation for the cruder things in life: to see the world in a pile of sand, infinity in a fly-over county. 0 reply
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