The Bridge

A story inspired by a painting I saw in Guadalajara; unfortunately I wasn't sharp enough to take a picture of it at the time.  This is the first short story I've every written-- actually perhaps the first piece of fiction I've ever written-- so apologies for whatever shortcomings there may be.  Given that it is my first attempt at fiction, any comments or criticisms would be greatly appreciated.  Also, as before: not suicidal.  :)


They say that wherever you go, there you are.  And when I think about it, that's always been the problem.  That's the thought that's plagued me for all these years, that's hung over and before me like a thick veil, driving the color from my world.  And really, at its deepest, I think that's what caused me to do it; that's what caused me to jump.

I don't know when the idea first entered my mind-- it must have been months before.  I don't think I was even really aware that I was thinking about it for the first few weeks.  I just kept coming to that bridge more often, standing in that same spot.  I like to think I found the plunging waters beautiful, so tranquil and calm and then all of a sudden white froth and open air.  It was like they were trying to erase themselves from the picture.  I imagined millions of drops of water, marching smugly towards a waiting void.  Sometimes I'd try to follow them with my eyes, picking out a floating coke bottle or some dirty styrofoam container, watching eagerly as they inched slowly closer towards the dam's smiling lip.

At first it was just whenever I happened by, picking up a movie or something, but soon I started ending up there every day after work.  I'm not quite sure how-- my flat was in the other direction-- but it happened so often and then one day I realized I'd been there every day for a month-- weekends, too.

I guess I should have realized it then.  I don't know, maybe a part of me did and just didn't care.  It certainly wasn't a hard lie to keep from myself, what with all the other people walking by or stopping, laughing and talking.  ''I'm just enjoying the view,'' I'd say to myself.  ''What's so wrong with that?''  Nothing, nothing at all.  It was a fine view: the flowing water, the tree-lined shores, and the dam right at their union like a handshake from one shore to the other.  Besides, the bridge was beautiful; anyone could see that.  Columns of old, indifferent stone worn smooth by years of wind and rain, light brown like coffee with too much milk.  Cold and calm and free.

Often as I stood there, looking out upon the waters, I'd run my hand over the columns' weathered surface, feeling the stone and wondering if the stone could feel me.  I'd stand up straight and imagine myself to be one of those cold, indifferent columns, simple and immortal.  Untouched by troubles.

Still, that was only wishful thinking; I knew the world wasn't that kind.  I just wanted it all to be different, you know?  I just wanted to be someone else.  It was like, 36 years and this is it?  A crappy flat and a dead-end job?  Even my four white walls looked so bored they wished they could get up and leave.  And that was it.  Where was the passion?  Where was the excitement?  I just couldn't find it, and believe me I tried.  I rented all the movies people raved about, I watched all the sporting events people were excited about-- I just couldn't see it.  I couldn't care.

And then one day, watching the water, it hit me: just jump.  That was it.  It was so easy.  Just jump and goodbye job, goodbye flat, goodbye empty life.  Not only that but it was the perfect revenge.  Here it had always seemed like life had the upper hand, standing behind you with a knife against your back and telling you to just keep going, keep living.  But here it was, the solution to it all: just stop.  Jump.

Once the idea hit me I'll admit I didn't really look back; I didn't have any second thoughts.  The only thing I decided was I'd wait until sometime when there weren't any kids around.  I'm not sure why I got fixed on that.  After all, what did it matter if they saw a man jump?  What did it matter if they saw him pass over that lip, plunge into the waiting void?  Hadn't they seen the coke bottles and the styrofoam containers do that a thousand times?  Was this really any different?  I don't know, maybe it was my sense of moral responsibility that made me choose to wait.  When it came down to it, it didn't really matter much anyway-- a couple days, a week.  I was already just killing time, so what was the hurry?

In the end though it only took three days.  I didn't really change my routine; I just kept coming every day after work, standing by that column, turning every once in a while to see if any kids were around.  I wasn't too worried about anyone trying to stop me-- I doubted whether they could get to me before I'd done it, in fact whether they'd even realize what I was doing-- and so when the time came there was really nothing to it.  I calmly lifted myself onto the thick, cobbled edge, pretended I was a stone column, and stepped off.

As I was falling, falling, falling I remember feeling like victory borne on golden wings.  I felt like I'd slapped life straight in the face, like I'd won.

When I hit the water, though, I felt the full force of life slapping back.  It all happened in an instant-- the violent splash, the crack of bones, the cold, cold water rushing over and through me, pulling me under.  I was sinking, being dragged down and swallowed by the blue-black waves.  And as I sank, far above me I could see the filtered light of day, could see the distant rays of golden sunlight fading softer and softer, being erased-- just as I was-- by those cold, dark waters.

And as I was looking up at that dying light something happened, something inside me.  I felt panicked.  I couldn't breathe.  And I realized that all I wanted, all I'd ever wanted in the world was a breath of fresh air.  My lungs were burning, flooding, while my arms flailed, trying blindly to grasp at anything that might bring me back.  And for some reason, in that monumental state of panic, that line from ''Fight Club'' came into my head.  That part where the penguin tells Edward Norton, ''just keep swimming!''  And then, as if everything was firing in sequence, I remembered life and the knife against your back and just keep going.  In this instant that lasted a lifetime the thick veil was finally lifted, and for the first time I saw the knife at my back; I saw the hand holding it and the hand was mine.  It had always been mine. 

I felt like crying from joy, like repenting.  I'd been so blind, so lost.  I'd had it backwards-- inside-out and upside-down.  It was my hand.  It was me.  And then in horror I realized that now, when for the first time I could see clearly, every possibility was fading around me, disappearing forever beneath those blue-black waters. 

And as reality rushed back I found myself clawing against the current, dipping beneath the waves and then fighting back above them.  I could hear the roaring waters at my back, could almost feel the cool vapor rising over that threatening lip from the silent void beyond.  I was fighting with everything in me, desperately tearing at the waves, struggling to avoid my chosen fate.

And eventually, somehow, I made it to shore.  I was broken and hysterical.  I couldn't see anything, feel anything except the air in my lungs.  I was crying and gasping and clutching at the wet soil-- grasping and releasing thin pockets of mud with blind intensity, wheezing uncontrollably into the damp earth.

It wasn't long before people arrived, crowding around and shouting.  The paramedics came soon afterwards; I could hear the droning siren and then the shuffling feet as the crowd parted to let them near.  They must have put me on a stretcher-- with my shattered legs I suppose they had to-- though all of that is rather hazy.  And then I was being carried towards that blazing sound, staring at treetops and passing clouds, bobbing and wafting on the gentle breeze and feeling so light it was almost like I was floating.  And the last thing I remember before falling into that deep and empty sleep is looking up at the bright blue sky-- a blue so different from the water-- and being amazed at how open it seemed.

And that's it.  That's all I remember.  Of course, there were the months in the hospital, the physical therapy, and learning how to walk again.  I didn't mind that though, thirsted for it, in fact.  I was in love.  Each day felt full of promise, each moment so much more vibrant than before.

After I got out of the hospital I went back to my spot a few times, visiting it, touching the stone and looking out on the water, but it felt different; it didn't feel the same.  And eventually I stopped going-- I moved away to a new job and a new flat and a new life that I owned and authored-- but before I did I left my story there.  I wrote a message, took my heart and carved it into that cold, indifferent stone.  And when I left it read:

''Wherever you go, there you are.  So just keep going.''

The Sea Within

Sailing is a magnificent thing.  It's hard to put into words, but the experience seems to soak through you, to seep into every pore and sense you're feeling.  As you're out there you don't really realize it, so slow is the process, but that whole time you're being softly seduced by the waves and sea.

Of course, that's not how it starts though.  At first, you're seasick.  Nauseous and miserable.  Each wave-wrought lurch and plunge of the deck draws higher in your mouth the gristly, salty taste that so faithfully precedes vomit, so you stare at the horizon or you stare at the waves and at the same time you're praying to God, to your screwed-up sense of balance-- to anything that might listen, really-- that the nauseum end.

And, eventually, it does.  In the romance of the sea, I think this is where you're officially smitten.  As the seasickness subsides a new awareness rises up in its place as you find yourself intimately attuned to the rocking of the waves.  The rush and roll of the boat, so recently a cause of torture, now soothes with its meditative rhythms.  You find that when the boat sways, you sway, too.  And when it dips, you're dipping.  Like a dancer feeding off the movements of his partner, you fall in step with the flowing waves, expecting and embracing their motions.

And all this time the wind is blowing, gliding swiftly over the surface of the sea, quietly collecting the cool salt spray it will brush upon your cheeks.  That wind, that air-- it's easy to be blind to it.  Until, that is, you raise your sails.  Then, the taut white sheets bucking against the gusts, you feel the sheer force of that once tranquil wind.  And as you ply against the rigging, throwing every muscle into raising the sails, the distinction between man and ship grows dim.  I know it sounds strange, but at those times it's hard to tell where taut tendon ends and taut rigging begins, and at least for a moment that bright white wing is yours; it's you that's rising on the wind.

At night, as with most romances, the emotions thicken.  Sitting watch at midnight, the sails ablaze with a magnificent back-lit white, the waves ever-rolling, ever-soothing, a vault of stars twinkles down to reflect the froth-topped waves.  The night's silence resonates, seems louder in fact against the wind whistling, the waters crashing, and the rigging sighing against its load.  There are the things that seep in; this is the depth that fills your pores.

It's strange-- I thought that being on a sailboat a person would feel an expanded connection with the world at large.  You're borne on waters that have seen worlds away and on winds that have touched mountains you'll never know.  Yet as you look out in all directions on miles of swaying water, your world contracts.  There's the boat.  There's what you feel, what the boat feels.  Your perceptions of the world change, but rather than expanded they've turned more focused, bent inward and sharpened on the moment around you.

But it's not just while you're on the water.  The rolling of the waves, the soft caress of the wind, and even the serene, careless feeling of being adrift-- on the water or in your life-- they stay with you, whispering softly for days after your feet have touched the land.  You notice the breeze and the swaying in your legs.  You stare at a glass of water and envy the glass its waves.  The memories, the feelings, the waves-- they've trickled through you, left a residue of cool salt spray.  Somehow, in those few short days, things have changed, you've changed.  You aren't who you were.  Somehow, the sea is in you.

(Note: Matt suggested adding a travel map to show where I've gone and what route I took-- what a great idea!  I've added a link on the right side of the page to a google map showing just that.  Enjoy!)

Of Paradise

I'm having a strange time in Puerto Vallarta.  I've been here four days and I guess I'm supposed to be happy, or at least that's what I'd always thought people did here, but I just can't feel it.  It's funny.  On the sailboat ride down -- me and Chuck and Gary and three feet of legroom and sleeping on the table cushions -- there I felt comfortable and, when I think about it, I guess I was happy then.

But ever since then it's felt like everything is rocking back and forth, like the world's wobbling just a bit while millionaires next to their towering yachts don't even look up and say hi as you pass.  It's all felt so empty and yet the marina here is so lush -- three pools! masseuse! parrot show at 7! -- and I remember watching a crab near the water scurry between two rocks, disappearing within a crack, and I kind of wished I was that crab.  Or even one of those rocks.

On my second day here I met a girl.  I saw her profile online and said, ''hey we seem to share a lot of similar interests maybe we should meet'' and we did and it was a date, although I didn't realize that when it started.  We walked along the sea at sunset, with waves and surf whispering softly that it was ok that everything was still rolling back and forth.  As I scanned the shore for crabs and cracks she told me of her list of things to do before she dies and of the ones she'd already done.  ''Number 47: have someone fall in unrequited love with you.''  The boardwalk passed and then we were sitting in a half-lit park, her tiny hands seeking my arms or shoulders more and more as she laughed, while I was

wondering if her list had a ''Number 48: fall in unrequited love.''

In the morning I met a couple as I sat alone on a bench trying to figure out what I was feeling.  We talked on a while, them in green shirts the color of dollar bills, while I kept wondering if they noticed the toilet paper that'd blown next to her shoe.  They told me of life purpose, that you can have anything you put your mind to and can change the weather with your thoughts.  I guess they must be right because their condo was huge and luxurious -- I saw it.  And as the evening wore on and the sun sank below their glass veranda he drank and drank while his wife, still telling me of mind control, didn't care.

And then for some reason on the fourth day I felt tired, so very tired.  And I laid in bed for hours but I never felt any closer.  It was like a tiredness that hung off you, like a sludge or leaden chains, so I went to the internet cafe and spent four hours looking at other places I could be and I felt a little better I guess.

So that's it.  That's been the last four days.  And it's not like I can complain because there's really nothing else I'd rather be doing here.  I'm just waiting for the boat races this weekend -- to crew for Chuck and Gary -- so that I can leave.  Until then I'll just watch the Spring Breakers and the honeymooners and the timeshare owners and see if I can't figure out what they're seeing.  Maybe I'll sit on a park bench, concentrate really hard and try to make it snow.  Or maybe I'll just billow a bit on whatever winds I find, rock back and forth, or pretend I'm a crab or a rock.

Like I said, I'm having a strange time here.


(As an addendum, I realize that basically everything I write-- and particularly the above-- is kinda depressing.  I'm not depressed!  It's just that I only feel like writing about the stronger emotions or experiences I have and I guess melancholy pulls me harder than happiness.  So no worries!)

5 Most Salient Memories: Mazatlán

Mazatlán in my mind is sun and sea and sky.  It is a woman named Natalia blowing smoke against the pale blue light of dawn and laughing with blackened gums.  It is arriving on the boardwalk that first morning, after a sleepless night of buses and stations, as the sun first rises from the sea.  Mazatlán is soup and jugo de res and molé, prepared that morning in loving darkness and left neatly in the fridge.  It is waves and rocks and the meditative froth that forms from their embrace.

There is a town, of course -- wide, grimy streets and taxi drivers that honk at you every time they pass.  There is a boardwalk where people are running at every hour of the day and night, and a lighthouse on a hill atop a long and tiring trek.

Mostly though, Mazatlán to me is Natalia.  I can't be sure, but when I think back it seems like she is that welcome sun, that placid sky, and the rolling of the waves.  She is that peace and tranquil hum.  And when she laughs and blows smoke against the dim morning sky, you feel like you're where you belong right then. You feel like this is home.

The Color of Her Kindness

I pulled the sheets out of Natalia's dryer
and they were blue.
I stopped.
I stared down at them.

Had they always been blue?
Were these my sheets?
Had they been blue the whole time?
I asked her, was shocked:
the sheets were mine.

And suddenly I felt lost at sea.
Had I known that they were blue?
Had I ever really looked at them
or recognized their blueness?

I tried to think back,
to imagine the room and the sheets in it.
If I had been made to guess their color,
what color would I have said?

I stared down at them
and they seemed to stare back,
to swallow me up
along with the man I thought I was.

I was numb, had been numb
to kind and simple gestures.
The sheets were blue
and if I couldn't even pay enough attention
to know that they were blue
and not red, or green, or polka-dotted,
then how could I really know her at all
or see the color of her kindness?

I stared down at them,
at the sheets in my hand,
watching the subtle pleats
overflowing my fingers and
bending towards the earth,
thinking I was a fake
or maybe just a lousy guy.

And there I was,
standing,
staring,
thinking that these sheets I'd touched for days
I'd never really known.

Thinking,
in wonder,
that the sheets were blue.