said object

Put this up recently at kaffeeinkatmandu; a nifty tumblr site run by marcus speh.

The legs of a man at sea. Of a man walking on the seashore. Legs of the sea, legs dropping off the continental shelf, recovering from the maelstroms, the squalls, the gait of the waves, the weight, the flips and furls, the weeping of the sea. Legs on the bottom of the ocean floor, rooted there, in a copse of weeds, in caves. Sea legs, he’s earned his sea legs; stands on his sea legs now, he’s earned his walk on the shore. The legs of a famous man, legs of a career man, non-atrophic legs, virile legs, hairy legs, a man’s walk, his jaunt, his trophy, his proxy, his proximity, his fortune, his direction, his masculinity, his culture. His faith of sea life, his dangerous roving, his dangerous crawling, his future is ours, the legs of Charlie Chaplin. This is Chaplin on the seashore, in a woolen suit, plucked from his fame, sluiced of his fame, a man sunning himself on the beach, a man boxing with the sun, a man brushing sand from his chest and arms, an anonymous man waiting for a woman, waiting for a wife, waiting for another wife on the shore, the California shore, once from the other shore, bred on the other shore, the North sea, the cold sea, a punitive shore, full of plaice and eel, a woolen shore, Chaplin at the beach. There are no guides, no great house on the shore, no Chaplin. The legs are your legs, his legs are my legs.