Back in 2022, I took a solo trip to Seaside, Oregon, to complete my grad school application. The project felt so daunting that I needed to escape my home, if only for a night, to hunker down and finish it in a motel by the beach. Below is an excerpt from my diary that evening, paired with photos from my day:
A dreary fog and mist soaked coastal town off season. It’s been perfect.
This night alone was an agonizing decision. I longer to return to Astoria, but it is far and I was worried I would be too tempted to lurk around town instead of stay inside and work. Seaside was the perfect combination of intrigue and adventure, a place I had not been in 10+ years, barely knew, could easily drive to, could afford.
The beach was surreal today. A bright fog descended, obscuring the sky and sea and land. I stood in the middle of the three worlds, wondering where they began and ended. Two suns illuminated me: one the sky, and once in the wet reflection of the glassy mirror left behind by the receding tide.
I realized why I’m so afraid of the ocean. Because staring out into the open sea is like staring into an open door. Expecting something to come out from there, or be drawn inward. If there is an open door frame, then someone must walk through it. A ship, a wave, a storm. You get this uncanny feeling that something is out there ready to be taken in by the tide. And you’re waiting and waiting and waiting to meet it.
It was a surreal moment walking around the beach, being inside that hazy white cloud, feeling reality temporarily suspended. And then walking around Seaside, the charming, quirky, dilapidated town. The derelict Shilo-Inn looking, an old arcade, a sad Chinese restaurant. I was once replied by this town and now I am fascinated by it. It’s gloom, its decay, its mist. This was the right decision to come here. Now I just need to get work done.
— October 8, 2022
