When I was a kid the rare bits of sea glass I found on the beach felt like a magic treasure that no one else seemed to understand. My parents told me its worthless but I was convinced they just couldn’t see how this matte bit of coloured stone that let light shine through in the prettiest way was the most amazing thing in the world. Much more so than bland gold (: bite). Or Sterling silver (check: the number 925). I don’t remember when I joined their view and threw the last bit of childhood sea glass into the trash.
Today I came across the word in a book and it bares its teeth at me once more, like some words tend to do. Opening up worlds with a bite and a grip that won’t let go. The way in which sea glass so visibly carries the time and the sea and sand that shaped it (after being shaped as a bottle by some humans and then tossed into the sea by another human). The way its body so openly shows its whole long story of becoming. Like wrinkles on a human face. Okay, trying to describe it in clear words kind of destroys it. Found sea glass is poetry this way.

ꈍ .̮ ꈍ

The other day I overheard some one using the expression “razorblade pits” for something my teen girl mates and me used to call “cola-can walk”: The way some men perform masculinity, like, often freshly after starting to work out at the gym, when they make their shoulders and arms wide and walk as if they carried a cola can under (in?) their armpits. I love “razorblade pits” even more as it expresses how deeply masculine body pressure can hurt men.