Between Two Worlds

I have so many stories I want to tell you. Stories about spaces between worlds. About the beginning and end of time. About disappearing and reappearing. About things sticking together and coming apart.

I want to whisper to you of the truth I have heard on the wind.
And the secrets that only the monkeys and me know.
I want to share with you everything I have learned.
And also share, that I yearn for more.

I want to know every desire behind each resistance.
I want to be a master of the unknown.
I want to exist suspended between, arms and legs outstretched, this world and the other.

——

I know this world is for me because even though I don’t fear death, I still cling to life with both hands. Last night was not for sleeping. I existed somewhere between two worlds, my vigilance keeping me liminal.

 I had one dream:

The scene opens on a wide, flat beach; the tide is coming in quickly.
People crowd on a rocky pier to watch.
It reminds me of a video Andrew showed me of the Tohoku Tsunami in Japan. What stuck with me about this video: people are standing by, witnessing the rising water, not fleeing, immobilized by their awe. I notice one man is not observing, but acting. He’s wrestling a shark in the sand. Looks like a bull shark. The shark has come in with the tide and silently opens and closes its mouth, biting at air.

The man’s muscles bulge. He has an arm wrangled around the shark’s middle. His hand grasps the shark by the upper lip, subduing its attempts to move from side-to-side. He guides the shark back to the water. A triumph! that ripples through me for a moment – before I notice another shark has washed up on the beach. And there’s two more.

It’s dinner time.  I'm to meet my dad and his friend. The friend is someone I’m fond of, maybe from my childhood. I pop into my beach cabina to change and grab Lady.  I take a moment to admire my selection of belongings that have come with me for this stay – specialty clothes, hand-woven rainbow bag, and a favorite photo of my father’s father.

I'm at the dinner table. I don’t remember the food but I do remember the taste of doom. News reaches us: the water hasn’t stopped rising. The area is flooding. 

I leave Lady with my dad; I know she will be safe with him. And I know he and his friend will be safe too. But I have to see the water for myself.

 When I leave the restaurant, I am transported to a central terminal. I know if I get to “F,” I can go back to the beach, and maybe rescue my things from the cabina. “I’m a strong swimmer,” I remind myself.

The terminal is a concrete maze. Imagine an airport built with the lack of frills of a parking garage. Every turn leads to an onramp for emergency evacuation. Every tunnel leads to a plane, preparing to take off. But I can’t leave just yet.

I mostly see Brown and Black people in orange vests, soothing and ushering people along. I ask for directions from the nearest personnel. When I ask them to point me towards terminal “F,” they shake their head but pass me their key card. I can almost hear them say, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

I run towards Terminal F. The corridors are mostly empty now. I’ve found the place no one else is looking for; I’m at the entrance to Terminal F. I look down a long flight of wide, concrete stairs. And there is the water. Already halfway up and rising. Churning with debris. A turbid grey. There are a few people attempting to extricate themselves. But it’s unclear if they truly want to escape the water’s clutches. Their limbs move too gracefully. Not with real panic but a dramatized version of it.

I turn back to weigh my evacuation opportunities. The corridors aren’t so empty now but the people who fill them have lost their sense of urgency. They’re muttering quietly to themselves. It’s unclear if the moisture covering their faces is tears or sea water. Despair has set in. A collective knowing: there are no more planes.

 I feel calm. Tears rise and subside. I know I chose. I had to see it. See the water for myself.