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3
“The threshold must be carefully distinguished from the bounda
“The threshold must be carefully distinguished from the boundary. A Schwell <threshold> is a zone. Transformation, passage, wave action are in the word schwellen, swell, and etymology ought not to overlook these senses”--Walter Benjamin L’appel du vide: “The call of the void,” is a French expression used to describe the instinctive urge some feel to jump from high places. My friend Audrey tells me that in Paris, where she lives, the expression is used colloquially to describe someone who is suspected of being suicidal. She likens it to a siren song. Some claim that a fear of heights is not caused by fear of falling, but rather by the fear that you might be suddenly compelled to throw yourself over the edge. These people fear not the height, but L’appel du vide itself—the void, and its call.
If I lift my elbow to the height of my earlobe, I can cover the
If I lift my elbow to the height of my earlobe, I can cover the boat and everyone in it with my left thumb and block them from view. If my wrist is in line with this rock ledge, it must also be level with the spans of birds in the distance that rise untilting, and the parallel surface of ocean fifty feet below. If from here I can see that the horizon is an oval, then it never was a line. Below our grey boat dozes on a tongue of loose waves towards the grotto and away again. The surface of ocean is aluminum, dented by sun. If I squint hard I can peer through my salted lids into a new sky hazy with crystalline rain. My toes blue in their clenching of gravel about the rim, this gaping mouth’s philtrim—its cupids bow, its bones volcanic. It’s been minutes and the captains have abandoned their sorry rudders, barnacle-scabrous and trailing rust. The low boats are restless, they jostle in wait. If I am the first to try in two months, if I am the first woman in eight… “If you can’t jump climb back down already!” You shout into the sky, because I’ve dragged us both this far from home, because you’ve seen adrenaline win out once, because you try hard to persuade, but just aggravate the more. The rock nettles chew at ankle tendons and I press back between their teeth. If it’s been two months on trains, working dry fields for beds and two meals a day together, why is nothing better between us? From here I can see Naples’ black nostrils spewing garbage and smoking in the wind; A hot blast peeling a swallow from my throat. In ten days we plan to haul brown boxes across the same threshold and I don’t know how I can get out of it any more. The leathered men below begin to jeer in Italian; they jostle and take their bets. The chains wound in their chest hair boast in sunlight. To them I must be bar-soap, white-American, whiter than sky. I starch at their impatience, roil at sky-spat lures, regret that you are present, that I can’t throw my wan body from this rock.
It’s my mother who claims that I swam alone before I learned to
It’s my mother who claims that I swam alone before I learned to walk. I know this can’t be true, but I remember what she means. When sitting alone at the bottom of neighborhood pools—sure that if I held my breath long enough I would begin to inhale like the mermaids I idolized—I expected gas exchange to happen straight through my skin. When this practice only succeeded in alarming my bronzed mother and enhancing my O-2 capacity, I soon swam the length of the pool in one breath. When I bent both legs in unison, I opened my mouth to taste the chlorine. The year I learned to snorkel my dad guided us out along the edge of an Atlantic reef. I swam ahead and watched rows of black-spined urchins slide beneath in broken light. When I chinned up to round the edge of the reef, I found myself nose to nose with an animal my equal in size. Two sleek dorsal fins and wide slender whiskers. I froze and bore into her forehead and saw that my hair folded around me like a plume. A snout with a sky-blue jaw, the bitter taste of chemicals, too many long limbs and a stillness without threat. She slid by me and back around the island. “But Nurse sharks are toothless,” my dad smiled, “they don’t bite little girls.” But I can’t remember considering any teeth —just myself in reverse, as deeply eign as my body was below the surface, that her eyes couldn’t meet mine because they did not turn in their sockets. When summer hurricanes came, dad would take my sister and I to the beaches lined with red flags signaling “High Surf” unsafe for swimming. We sprung headlong in thin one-pieces into the cold black waves, trying to scramble out without getting smashed. We would cry “Over!” or “Under!” depending on the shape of the waves as they broke with each of us inside of them. When we wanted at the heart of their curling cavity. Beneath a folding wave the water is clear and quiet and gusts around your back so you seem propelled forward like a harpoon. Under such waves I leaned my body into a spiral and let the water enring my ribcage. I kicked my legs together the way I’d seen mermaids swim. I hated coming up for breath. I craved the force of that water, its pull on my limbs, letting it swallow my body in a breaker.
regret that you are present, that I can’t throw
regret that you are present, that I can’t throw my wan body from this rock. Our rented Captain is gesturing expressively and repeating the only English he remembers. “Hey!” he calls, and “Andiamo!” again. I think the sun is imprinting a yellow ring into my forehead. I think I could plant myself here indefinitely if I could only ease this swaying. I think I could tumble forward now, eyes-closed. They say if I hit flat-footed I may split my arches. If I don’t duck my chin I may snap my neck. Our attractive French companion is beside you and shading his eyes against the sun and I am well aware of all the lycra that is not encasing most of me. I lean into the void and the nettles bite back, are tied to my intestines. My spine spreads out. “She’s not gonna do it. Let’s get going!” A gull circles, cries. I look up and back down. I quiet the sea and the brown spackled shoulders, the teething plants and your voice proposing that you know more than I’ve let you in all four years, that soon your books will lean their backs hard against mine, that we are so inextricably dependent that if you spread your arms out above the sea and beckoned, I might float down between. I empty my lungs and look down the grotto’s blue throat, and then out into the horizon. If I step out over the water. If the hair rises from my shoulders—would it stay behind?--If the sea and rock rush together, then all edges will go soft. I hear breathing that is not my own again. I squeeze my eyelids and point my toes and still it is so bright. In swimming lessons we call this a pencil jump, a very long one. The air that I pass through is hot and though I tilt forward I cannot right myself. I fall too slow, in extended suspension, and nearly open my eyes to see where I have traveled yet. When water zips me into icy shock my intestines bristle back. I stay this way, fastened into myself. I fall fast until my ankles grow numb and the light past my lids is dim.
Sunk that far down—the sun a shattered slice too hollow and hig
Sunk that far down—the sun a shattered slice too hollow and high to be yours—with beams that scuttle across rock as through branches swinging above, it is easy to mistake the deep greens for leaves; tall stalks lean as if bent in a breeze, a blue haze on every side, winged animals sail overhead; It’s true that I was never a creature of seas, that my kind came from taller forests, upright walkers reverent of wide trunks, soft mosses underneath, quiet on bare feet—yet I pressed the remaining air from my chest and watched it separate into small clouds rising into that haze, stared at hands that seemed deadened in cold light; It’s not that I forgot about breath, my chest heaved and I let it, the way it might before a gasp. I consider staying below. One fusiform fin and no memory of drying light. Gills, as if I could. It’s my shoulders that move first; they lift the limbs and pull them down again against water, enough to raise limp digits and pull my fins from the deep.
foreign as my body was below the surface, that her eyes couldn’
foreign as my body was below the surface, that her eyes couldn’t meet mine because they did not turn in their sockets. When summer hurricanes came, dad would take my sister and I to the beaches lined with red flags signaling “High Surf” unsafe for swimming. We sprung headlong in thin one-pieces into the cold black waves, trying to scramble out without getting smashed. We would cry “Over!” or “Under!” depending on the shape of the waves as they broke with each of us inside of them. When we wanted at the heart of their arcing cavities. Beneath a folding wave the water is clear and quiet and gusts around your back so you feel propelled forward like a harpoon. Under such waves I leaned my body into a spiral and let the water enring my ribcage. I kicked my legs together the way I’d seen mermaids swim. I hated coming up for breath. I craved the force of that water, its pull on my limbs, letting it swallow my body in a breaker. After four summers I’d been thrown by battalions of waves, but had never known the jagged shoreline’s bottom lip to scrape at my back. This is a vulnerable place for a swimmer in the surf, where the line between sea and shore is sharpest, the spot with the most suction, where waves fall very far. At the end of a long day indoors, we were angry with my dad in the way children can be when they recognize a woman who isn’t their mother but who may try to be soon. When the rain broke, we ran out across the dunes toward that steel water alone, when the sky was dark and unblinking. We were never ready for that Atlantic cold. When I saw that the waves about my shoulders were the matte brown of those tapping at the horizon. When I couldn’t predict their swells. When I was out way too deep for waves, and the water still rose. When the ocean hit it was rolling off a hurricane, swinging rocks the size of my fists that sp- -un around my hips as I was pulled down and away from the shore in undertow. I forgot the horizon and tasted sand as I clawed back against the water. My cold muscles tired fast and stopped beating back. It felt like being pulled into a vacuum, it felt like being half-asleep. When the ocean went quiet I opened my eyes to the salt.
traveled yet. When water zips me into icy shock my intestines b
traveled yet. When water zips me into icy shock my intestines bristle back. I stay this way, fastened into myself. I fall fast until my ankles grow numb and the light past my lids is dim. It’s the rim of my head that surfaces first and there’s a small shout. “Hey!” says our captain as he clasps my cold back. “Perfect form—You go through the rock bed?” winks our French companion, holding my elbow. “Get stuck down there?” You ask, impossibly beaming with brows knit.
down and away from the shore in undertow. I forgot the horizon
down and away from the shore in undertow. I forgot the horizon and tasted sand as I clawed back against the water. My cold muscles tired fast and stopped bea -ting back. It felt like being pulled into a vacuum, it felt like being half asleep. When the ocean went quiet I ........................opened my eyes to the salt. My hands snaked out as from under a blanket as the wave spit me hard onto the shore. Foam lapped and sizzled as I coughed and the ocean came .....back out. I was surprised at a swath of .sandy weed in my hair, at a new burning behind my nose. My sister yelled to get out, that it was too rough, she ...was going inside. When I came in ....dripping my dad brushed it off. He thought I wanted attention—I did. When couldn’t explain that I was drowned and back again, I told him how much colder the air was out here.
It’s not that I forgot about breath, my chest heaved and I let
It’s not that I forgot about breath, my chest heaved and I let it, the way it might before a gasp. I consider staying below. One fusiform fin and no memory of drying light. Gills, as if I could. It’s my shoulders that move first; they lift the limbs and pull them down again against water, enough to raise limp digits and pull my fins from the deep.
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