I am out of the shower and not caring about my to-do list.
I am out of the shower and would rather write to you, about the four fish Lou just flushed, because one kept swimmin up. He made it against the current, again and again and again.
Am I you? I thought.
I hope I am you.
He circles the toilet bowl for hours, but when he swims a little too low, Lou pulls the lever again. This time, he does not resurface. He had the strongest will, the most enduring fight-- but he is still just a fish. And down he goes. It isn't fair that his size got in the way of his fight, that he never had a name, that before this day, I could not tell him from any other fish. It isn't fair that I didn't save him. I will think of this all morning. Because I am you, little fish. And who will help the fighters become survivors, if not for those who have already survived?
July 21st, 2009.
I sit before the ocean as the tide goes OUT.
Each wave beats sure and fierce on the shore
before the force of a cycle, the pull of the moon
gives it no choice but to SHRINK BACK.
As it retreats, returns to its center,
it sings its last presence...
chanting in HORIZONTAL BREAKS:
IT'S NOT OVER.
IT'S NOT OVER.
THIS.
IS NOT.
THE LAST.
4 comments:
Since fish can swim, and since the plumbing from the toilet to the Ocean is water-logged, I don't worry one tittle for Nemo. He is just going from one adventure to another, loving life as only a creature with a 2 second memory can. You bring up an astute point about the survivors being the only ones to help the fighters. In fact, this is my favorite of your posts in at least a year Lyndsi-Shae. Here I am, hitting on you again; don't tell Stoph. But seriously, this was an invigorating post composed of appetizing thoughts.
you flushed it alive? sad.
Why did Stephy Lou flush live fish?
I understand this though. I find metaphors in everything. Soul crushing can't-get-them-out-of-my-head metaphors.
I love you.
I don't know what else to write, except I love you.
Oh and I'm coming to Provo. Ticket bought and everything.
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