I'm hungry. Not starving. Not physically craving. I don't feel like eating, that's the problem.

I'm hollow though, my tubes pushing around vacancy, air, bial, and water. My body shakes and my head pounds a low steady beat. I stand and the vacancy pumps to my head which is expecting oxygen, sustenance.

Why wouldn't I want to eat? I want to eat plenty of times when I'm full. You'd assume there would be a connection but there isn't. My logic doesn't apply.

Maybe it's my lack of movement? Movement is the bowel sense not locomotive. I need to take a shit. Then I'd be hungry. I never shit on the first day in a new place. It's something I've never understood. Why does travelling slow down my bowels? Maybe it's because I moved faster than I'm meant to.

Sitting in my grey foam and felt seat on flight 6030 taxiing to the runway, it's all ok, nothing unnatural. When the massive acceleration starts I feel it. My head can't keep up. The plane's engines dragging my body along with it but my mind trails behind, slow to catch up.

We're not supposed to move at these speeds. What are we doing to ourselves? My head catches up within minutes, follows behind the ugly bird, eventually climbing back into my skull. My bowels don't find me for another day or two.

This place stinks. The green and blue reek of an old world. A world we have yet to pave over and make scent-less. Or worse, give it the smell of a city. That tragic mix of tar, hot dogs, sweat, garbage and movement.

The salt of the ocean climbs into the air here, makes it's way into your nose and skin. You don't have to get in the ocean to feel it. When you're this close it gets into you.

It's not everyday I can sit on a beach, sand under my ass, a rock against my back, it's cold bleeding through into my spine, the tide and it's waves steadily climbing towards me. The dense morning fog didn't burn off today. It's 2 o'clock and I can barely see 50 feet out onto the ocean. The beach is empty save me and the hermit crabs.

I planned on going for a swim today. Braving the cold salt water and it's array of creepy occupants. We fresh water Ontario lake kids have it tough out here. Luckily I had some exposure as a lad, toted out here each summer to visit the family my parents left behind as teenagers. To stay in their strangely decorated homes. To smell their bodies dying. To have my cheeks squeezed, my apparent height increase being our only common point of interest, something to talk about.

I never swam out too far as a child but I had a chance to get a little more comfortable with the inhabitants. I learned how to pick up a jelly fish without getting stung. I'd place my hand on top of it as it jellied on the surface. They didn't look one piece. They were loose, broken, part of the ocean. I'd push down on it's top. Push it down into the water and then scoop it up. I'd keep it in my palm as I scooped through the water until I broke the surface again, palm up, with a handful of flourescent goop.

It took a few tries before I could touch the little freak shows. Once I had one out of the water, up into a place it's never experienced, I'd smash it on the rocks. Why do kids kill and torture things?

I met a lot of people on this little beach. I remember a greek guy who lived on the hill beside the beach. He was older than me. He took me snorkelling. He explained that we weren't supposed to. You had to have a license or permit. He had broom handles with 2 nails fastened to the end, forming a white trash spear. We put on goggles and snorkels and floated out.

He had 4 lobsters before I'd even seen one. I couldn't find them. Frustrated, I went to shore. I checked out his cache of fish monsters only to find he wasn't catching lobsters at all. His bucket was full of camoflaged green-brown-black crabs. There wasn't one red lobster. He musn't have found any either.

I learned that day lobsters only turn red when they're cooked. They're the opposite of land animals in that regard. Cows turn from red to brown when cooked. I could have been there a while hunting my bright red, perfectly cooked, lobster. I never had to worry about whether I had the balls to skewer them with 2 old nails. I never found out what their screams sounded like when you thrust metal into them.