But it makes everything all right, evens out the cacophony found in the machinations of the city, the engines of plans, the grind of blade against soil and stone of furrowed acres. It contains familiarity, for we can imagine human hunger compared to piscine hunger, which causes the gilled desire to eat a filamented, armored bug, while our own wishes concern fish on a plate, dressed in crumbs.
The water itself is thicker than air, so sound has a more difficult time traveling through it, dulling whatever result. Rhythmic heartbeats of oars, oars, oars; an anchor sliding into the watery world, a capering fish; all finish in the identical invitation to a mysterious kingdom, you wouldn't know that you were on the same planet. The stillness of the morning, having been broken by the slap of a fish, settles again into a hushed atmosphere, as if framed by heavy drapery.
Sound underwater can travel for thousands of miles depending on water temperature and density; this sort of science is used by whales to bounce a signal between the ocean floor and the thermocline from hemisphere to hemisphere, where fewer encumbrances exist to break up the energy.
The whole physics thing is skewered, and you better get smart about it if you want to interact, for even though we came from fish, there is little left that points to similarities beyond the hypothetical reason men get hernias easier than women. (By the by, yes, I am an evolutionist. Don't mean to step on toes but if you aren't in sync with biological adaptation and change, they'll take you to the president's mansion, and by president's mansion, I mean nuthouse). Archimede's Principle, Boyle's Law, Gay-Lussac's second Law, Dalton's Law, Henry's Law, and Snell's Law are all part of watery curriculum, and essentially stand landlubber reasoning on it's head.
What does the clap of a fish mean? What does this happy, simple event do to your life? An arising to the atmosphere from below, a very different organism surfaces if only for a half-second, before going back under to continue it's living. Rather than an active response, I believe we humans go through more of a quiet recognition of disturbance, an acknowledgement that we are not alone, a gratitude. Perhaps it makes a search for one's own breakfast imminently necessary, a portion of toast, an egg, coffee or tea. The morning paper, if you are lucky enough to get one or have time for it.
Say hey to the fish, and any other early waking denizen of the deep, then trot back to the house, the cottage, the tent, the forest where sound is absorbed by leaves and ravines, but then there is much more usable oxygen. Some mornings will evoke an orchestra of claps if a swarm of mayflies has landed upon the surface or if the smaller minnows are caught in the high tide zone of the epipelagic layer.
Once or twice, I have been on a schooner and surrounded by a school of flying fish which elicited the impression of an audience clapping, a riffled deck of cards, a slappy tommygun. Years later at breakfast on a deck, millions of pilchards threw themselves onto the beach to escape the pursuing mullets, also in a froth, for they were being eaten by dolphins. The beached pilchards were grabbed by the screaming gulls as their fishy brethren were snagged by the mullets in a roiling, flappity mess of fin and feather. The dolphins were thrilled at the all-you-can-eat buffet, and repeatedly crashed into each other as if someone threw handfuls of jelly beans into a room of six year olds.
Because waves hit at a slant onto shore, the whole sea circus eventually traveled away, the brilliant silver of the unhappy sardines sparkling at the edge of the burbling, exploding tide. My eggs and toast were just as good.
Silent night tonight; this October evening the city is encouraging households to shine a blue light in memory of the officer lost in a diving accident. What went wrong has not been told or perhaps found, yet, except for that portion of the river is exceptionally dangerous, which is why it is used for training. A very fast current pushed north by the waters of all the Great Lakes creates a most unusual circumstance of 3,160 tons of water going over the Falls every second. Toss in debris such as stolen cars, shopping carts, boat motors, and the field of obstacles will then extend 100 feet out from the river banks.
It was a beautiful autumn day, the wildflowers and grasses have browned and are waiting for the first frost. I need to shake out and launder the heavier blankets, as the cats pile on at night, sleeping closer to each other than the usual warfare allows. The emptiness of the night draws me, the sequestering phase of this 24 hour division leads to the brain organizing the day's intake, repair, and regeneration. Images flash on a mental screen, pictures that make no sense except for the perception of being an observer, of looking through my eyes. My dreams rarely connect to anything. They are often repetitive, I revisit the same settings many times.
There is an Easter candy shop on a woods path, the chocolates set out on folding wooden tables; there is a Chinese restaurant in the basement of a hotel, and we eat while a tornado is wreaking havoc outside; I often buy my grandmother's house, or my Aunt Dorie's, and get to clean out the basement. My son is always 12 years old. Sometimes I lose my class of children in the school which is being renovated faster than I can remember, new hallways and rooms open and shut when I try to return from the office; my favorite is that of cars, I have cars. Foreign ones, old ones, a DeSoto, a Hudson, and they all run, are fun to drive; I fill them with gas.
But you, what are your dreams? Or do they elude you once you awaken, like a fish disappearing beneath the surface? I guess it's more of a release of tension, or the blood pressure medicine turning the crank. To have a small ritual before bed sets the stage for sleep, and so we have a glass of milk, brush teeth, hang clothing, turn out lights, unplug any scary things like the 1940's toaster, count children and animals, and tuck in. Good night, dear heart.
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