Sorry I haven't gotten around to finishing the latest story! I hope to do that over the weekend.
I was sitting in the park the other day and a woman came in, wheeling a 2-year-old in a stroller. The 2-year-old dropped her package of animal crackers and the woman said, "Oh, f--- me." I glanced at her and she smiled sheepishly and said, "Sorry, didn't realize there was anyone else here."
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
I did not feel a thing
When I sing, I feel no pain. This is really remarkable, almost like magic. I remember reading about some old master painter whose fingers were locked up with arthritis, but who became young again and pain-free and energetic when he picked up the brush again. But I'm certainly not a master, and I'm not old either. It's just that singing requires so much concentration there's no room for anything else.
There are lengths of notes, and pitches of notes, and those are hard enough to get straight. There is dynamic (or loudness), and so many other symbols to pay attention to both above and below the staff... there are crescendos... and of course the words you are singing, which have to be memorized eventually, you can't read them and read the notes and everything else at the same time. I am not a music prodigy. Just trying to keep track of one or two of these elements at once--say, the words I'm supposed to be singing and the lengths of the notes, at the tempo we're singing them--requires so much concentration that the rest of the world might as well not exist.
I had terrible cramps the day we were rehearsing the Brahms Requiem. I have cramps that could fell a horse, although that's not special among women. And I thought, good. Better to have them today. I was in so much pain I was nauseous and shaking and sweating on the risers, afraid I was going to faint. We would sing a movement and there would be nothing but focusing on singing, which is wonderful, and of course the piece itself, and it was beautiful and electrifying and fun and everything it always is. I would feel nothing physically, unless the hairs on the back of my neck stood up like they do when you sing in a chorus and you hit a particular chord. And then the piece would end and Mr. Kent would drop his hands and the pain would come back all at once and I would try not to fall over. Sweating. I was so glad we were rehearsing because otherwise I would have been at home alone in my apartment trying to deal with it, with no distraction.
I have somehow backed myself into a corner this year with my bad habits, mostly worrying and perfectionism and denying my feelings. I've had these problems all my life, but somehow this year they've bred until I've gotten to a place where literally every move I make hurts. I can't ponder a decision without being stabbed by fear or cut down by self-criticism... but I don't even see what I'm doing and I react to it without thinking, like an animal. I feel like I've dressed myself in a straightjacket. Every move hurts. I am blessed to be able to write this now... it has become so much a part of the background that I'd begun thinking this was just the way life was. It is painful all the time, and if I have a problem with it it's because I'm weak or lazy.
It was funny to watch myself singing tonight. I felt no pain while singing. And then when we quit for the evening I felt it all roll back in. But it was the thoughts that were odd. Half-formed things resembling "Oh, now I have to feel this again... this is real life... I'd forgotten about this..." as blankets of queasy fear and pain settled on top of my brain, smothering the clarity I'd had a minute earlier.
But they give themselves away. Those thoughts. There is something of a chicken-and-egg question here. Which came first, the heavy misery or the thought that I had to experience it? That--oh--I have forgotten what real life is? What odd thoughts to have. It seemed to me that they were a bit over-eager, rushing in in the desperate hope that I wouldn't forget about them. Well I was afraid and I set myself in opposition to them, and they overcame me and I became straightjacketed again. Until I sat down to write this. Writing is a little like singing.
I'm sitting here watching the words appear on the screen as my fingers move. I want to make a resolution, I want to say, I will not be in opposition to my fears. I would say that I will feel them when they come and when they go away I will feel that. It is a new thing to me to be at this loose end. To give up trying to control tomorrow. I must remember that I am already in a corner and there is, in fact, no where else to go. To learn a new thing is difficult sometimes but if that's all that's keeping me from it... there are far worse things than difficulty. Like, oh, TERRIBLE TERRIBLE PAIN.
There are lengths of notes, and pitches of notes, and those are hard enough to get straight. There is dynamic (or loudness), and so many other symbols to pay attention to both above and below the staff... there are crescendos... and of course the words you are singing, which have to be memorized eventually, you can't read them and read the notes and everything else at the same time. I am not a music prodigy. Just trying to keep track of one or two of these elements at once--say, the words I'm supposed to be singing and the lengths of the notes, at the tempo we're singing them--requires so much concentration that the rest of the world might as well not exist.
I had terrible cramps the day we were rehearsing the Brahms Requiem. I have cramps that could fell a horse, although that's not special among women. And I thought, good. Better to have them today. I was in so much pain I was nauseous and shaking and sweating on the risers, afraid I was going to faint. We would sing a movement and there would be nothing but focusing on singing, which is wonderful, and of course the piece itself, and it was beautiful and electrifying and fun and everything it always is. I would feel nothing physically, unless the hairs on the back of my neck stood up like they do when you sing in a chorus and you hit a particular chord. And then the piece would end and Mr. Kent would drop his hands and the pain would come back all at once and I would try not to fall over. Sweating. I was so glad we were rehearsing because otherwise I would have been at home alone in my apartment trying to deal with it, with no distraction.
I have somehow backed myself into a corner this year with my bad habits, mostly worrying and perfectionism and denying my feelings. I've had these problems all my life, but somehow this year they've bred until I've gotten to a place where literally every move I make hurts. I can't ponder a decision without being stabbed by fear or cut down by self-criticism... but I don't even see what I'm doing and I react to it without thinking, like an animal. I feel like I've dressed myself in a straightjacket. Every move hurts. I am blessed to be able to write this now... it has become so much a part of the background that I'd begun thinking this was just the way life was. It is painful all the time, and if I have a problem with it it's because I'm weak or lazy.
It was funny to watch myself singing tonight. I felt no pain while singing. And then when we quit for the evening I felt it all roll back in. But it was the thoughts that were odd. Half-formed things resembling "Oh, now I have to feel this again... this is real life... I'd forgotten about this..." as blankets of queasy fear and pain settled on top of my brain, smothering the clarity I'd had a minute earlier.
But they give themselves away. Those thoughts. There is something of a chicken-and-egg question here. Which came first, the heavy misery or the thought that I had to experience it? That--oh--I have forgotten what real life is? What odd thoughts to have. It seemed to me that they were a bit over-eager, rushing in in the desperate hope that I wouldn't forget about them. Well I was afraid and I set myself in opposition to them, and they overcame me and I became straightjacketed again. Until I sat down to write this. Writing is a little like singing.
I'm sitting here watching the words appear on the screen as my fingers move. I want to make a resolution, I want to say, I will not be in opposition to my fears. I would say that I will feel them when they come and when they go away I will feel that. It is a new thing to me to be at this loose end. To give up trying to control tomorrow. I must remember that I am already in a corner and there is, in fact, no where else to go. To learn a new thing is difficult sometimes but if that's all that's keeping me from it... there are far worse things than difficulty. Like, oh, TERRIBLE TERRIBLE PAIN.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
I must say this
In Wal-Mart tonight in front of me a little boy, I mean a really little boy, asked his father, "Daddy, does smoking feel good?"
"No," said his father, who had tattoos on every visible body part.
"Then why don't you stop doing it?" asked the little boy, who was apparently at the age of four already turning into his mother. (Either that, or he was really just being a little kid.)
"No," said his father, who had tattoos on every visible body part.
"Then why don't you stop doing it?" asked the little boy, who was apparently at the age of four already turning into his mother. (Either that, or he was really just being a little kid.)
Sunday, September 2, 2007
I know what you want, part 2
I've been wearing my hair long now for years for one reason: the way it feels when I've been in and out of the water from sunup to sundown, wet and dry and wet and dry, without the time or inclination for a shower. It gets dreadlocked with salt, stringy and sticky, until I can't run my fingers through it at all, I can only whip my head back to get it all out of my face. It's breathtakingly gross and breathtakingly freeing at the same time. My body's so far gone it isn't worth even a thought about getting clean, let alone an effort. Salt is crumbly on my arms and thighs. My fingers are pale and wrinkled and everything has a faint blue haze from the sun pill I took this morning. The Pacific Ocean goes on right to the sky where little clouds dribble like white droppings on the horizon, unimportant and very far away. You know, even my eyebrows have salt in them.
I love the Earth. It's been said to me that you can't truly appreciate Earth unless you've spent time in space, but I've known for a long time that I can't go into space, that this is all there is for me, and it only makes things all the more precious. This is all there is. And it's heaven.
For instance, there's nothing like the beach. And even if you've been to the beach--even if you came down from Quasaw or rode the rail from Missouri and spent an afternoon sunning and swimming, you wouldn't know what we know.
It's Rafe's second day on Earth and I was right. He likes the surfing all right but he loves the surfers. Because my friends are the opposite of spacefolk. They're laid-back friendly San Francisco Earthsters with all their rough edges smoothed over by drugs and sun. They like everybody. They're a lot like me.
"So you play that thing?" Marcus is asking him, pointing at the guitar.
Rafe shrugs. "I play it every day. I've played it every day of my life since I was 12." He picks it up and sits it on his thigh like I used to do with my niece when she was a little sack of potatoes.
"Do you sing?" asks Tony, crowding in in his eagerness.
Rafe grins, that smile, that smile, that makes me so grateful he's here. Because it's not a stunning smile. Or a beaming smile, or a polite or a self-conscious one. It is a simple smile, so shy and honest I think I could go without talking for the rest of the year. In fact it doesn't bear describing at all, so I take it all back.
"Uh, I try not to," he says.
I am sitting on my favorite piece of driftwood watching him like a hawk. The orange sun is behind him and there's a skin of orange light wrapping around his features, sifting through his hair. Hair that's too short for him to feel what I feel now, tickling my shoulders and back. He has a light, deft jaw, I'm noticing, his mouth moves so easily--despite his persistent silence--like English is weightless, like he lives in some alternate universe from mine where impulse is hefty but expression light, instead of the other way around. I want to know what he wants.
I do know what he wants. He wants to sing. For these new friends, people whose attention he craves, blond dudes like the characters in the movies, who've been showering him with warmth and questions since the moment I brought him to this beach when the sun was still in the east.
"Come on," I say. "Do you write songs?"
He nods, his Adam's apple bobbing in a swallow. The faintest likeness of his smile, the understudy of his smile, just a little movement of the lips, flickers on his face. Yes. You want this, I think, and it's intoxicating to me. I see it! that hint of your spaceboy soul, and it's better than drugs. You've come thousands of miles, leaving behind intellectual friends who match your smarts but not your sincerity, to be here on this one beach where you can share this one song with the one group of people who'll take it just like it is.
Or something.
"Yeah?" I ask. I make myself pause. It's hard, but I'm not totally lacking in self-discipline. "You know, this beach, I mean, it's beautiful and all, and it's easy to come here and use it and go back to town, but it's harder to try to give something back."
Now Kit and Marcus are looking at me too. I better think up something good.
"It's not... I mean it's not... I mean it is for the beach, for Mother Nature, but it's more for us, actually. Like the Indians, to try to give something to the spirit of the place, to show we can be humble. To leave something of ours behind."
Rafe, bless him, actually glances up the beach to his bag for a second, but then he looks back at his guitar. He's not even thinking to question this spiritual mumbo jumbo, the rascal. He plain wants to sing for us. I am suddenly so absurdly touched.
"I wrote this song about this one night a couple years ago on the station," he says easily. The first chord is perfect, each string ringing out, in tune and everything. I would know; my brother played guitar for years. Badly. The guys lean forward in the sand, so pleased, I know, to have something new tonight, something other than Tony telling us what he did with his girlfriend. I look away before he begins, because the evening is coming on, and the air is just right, exactly 75 degrees, with a breathlike breeze, and the sun is that soft color that makes it impossible to take bad pictures, or memories. The ocean is a dark blue with waves standing out jagged in the exaggerated relief of sunset. My muscles are warm and ache and I can feel the warmth of the sand on the tops of my burrowing feet and even on the pale skin between my toes.
And Rafe opens his mouth and sings low and perfectly on key, and I don't hear a word of it. It gets to verse three or something and I'm kicking myself because I'm noticing for the fifth time in the past forty-five seconds that I'm not paying attention to his song. I'm paying attention to him. The angle his back takes as he leans over the instrument. The years of practice I see in how his fingers move. The preciseness with which he's trimmed his nails. The freckles on his shamelessly pale arms. The lack of tattoos. The ring I didn't notice until now, a silver ring. His lips... how the curve of his upper lip leaves his white teeth exposed when he opens his mouth to take a breath. How long his eyelashes are. The pointiness of his active, human, insignificant elbows. His elbows!
Pay attention, man!
It's only one night
Tomorrow comes quickly
For sleepers and lovers
And slowly for me
It's only one night
But it's only three-thirty
And I had this same thought
At a quarter to three
It's only one night
And I know tomorrow
Will find me as foolish
As the guilty can be
And it's only one night
And it's only one night
And it hurts and it's still only three-thirty-three.
Well damn it, he's good... And I'm a fool for not being able to listen to the whole song. I don't know what's wrong with me, sometimes. But I let this slip away and there's no way to get it back and I'm chagrined. I clap with the others and gaze at his smile. Somewhere in my self-castigation I know he's the one who's important, that it's what he's feeling that matters. He's happy. That's all.
And the guys are definitely happy. They whoop it up. "Dude, you're good!" says Marcus in awe. "You're good," echoes Kit. He's such a gusher. "You could be, like, on RayRay. You're better than half the singers on RayRay. You should apply."
Rafe is shaking his head, still smiling. The guys can't stop talking. They're all over him with praise. Okay, I am too. "You have perfect pitch, man," I say. "And you know emotion. You're a songwriter. I don't know what you get paid to do back on station, but you're a songwriter."
The sun's going down... we have a delicious evening of food and alcohol and the town and partying ahead of us... tomorrow it's the jungle, and it's just you and me. Your last day. Then you get on a ship and streak away to Tokyo. Tokyo! As if anyone cared about Tokyo...
"So what are you going to leave?" Rafe the songwriter is asking me, and Kit laughs, and I'm so surprised I think it shows on my face. Shit.
"Yeah, Nate, what's your offering to the beach? I gave it my blood, obviously." Kit is talking about his wipeout earlier.
I'm scrambling. What do I know about sacrifice? Being a surfer and a junkie and a tour guide is about take, take, take! Take the sun, take the evening, take the dope, take the money, take the delight, I take it all. Silly. I can't do this. I can't think of anything.
"Dude, all he's got is his shorts," says Tony, guffawing.
"Nooooo!" says Marcus.
Imbeciles. I'm an imbecile too. "I'm leaving something... intangible," I say, not knowing what. Rafe nods at me so I think it's all right. I think I can leave it at that and not be taken for a liar or a cheat. I just don't know how to play this game, all of a sudden.
I don't even know what I'm leaving when we actually leave an hour after the sun goes down. It doesn't matter, I don't think. Tomorrow I'll be doing what I do best.
I love the Earth. It's been said to me that you can't truly appreciate Earth unless you've spent time in space, but I've known for a long time that I can't go into space, that this is all there is for me, and it only makes things all the more precious. This is all there is. And it's heaven.
For instance, there's nothing like the beach. And even if you've been to the beach--even if you came down from Quasaw or rode the rail from Missouri and spent an afternoon sunning and swimming, you wouldn't know what we know.
It's Rafe's second day on Earth and I was right. He likes the surfing all right but he loves the surfers. Because my friends are the opposite of spacefolk. They're laid-back friendly San Francisco Earthsters with all their rough edges smoothed over by drugs and sun. They like everybody. They're a lot like me.
"So you play that thing?" Marcus is asking him, pointing at the guitar.
Rafe shrugs. "I play it every day. I've played it every day of my life since I was 12." He picks it up and sits it on his thigh like I used to do with my niece when she was a little sack of potatoes.
"Do you sing?" asks Tony, crowding in in his eagerness.
Rafe grins, that smile, that smile, that makes me so grateful he's here. Because it's not a stunning smile. Or a beaming smile, or a polite or a self-conscious one. It is a simple smile, so shy and honest I think I could go without talking for the rest of the year. In fact it doesn't bear describing at all, so I take it all back.
"Uh, I try not to," he says.
I am sitting on my favorite piece of driftwood watching him like a hawk. The orange sun is behind him and there's a skin of orange light wrapping around his features, sifting through his hair. Hair that's too short for him to feel what I feel now, tickling my shoulders and back. He has a light, deft jaw, I'm noticing, his mouth moves so easily--despite his persistent silence--like English is weightless, like he lives in some alternate universe from mine where impulse is hefty but expression light, instead of the other way around. I want to know what he wants.
I do know what he wants. He wants to sing. For these new friends, people whose attention he craves, blond dudes like the characters in the movies, who've been showering him with warmth and questions since the moment I brought him to this beach when the sun was still in the east.
"Come on," I say. "Do you write songs?"
He nods, his Adam's apple bobbing in a swallow. The faintest likeness of his smile, the understudy of his smile, just a little movement of the lips, flickers on his face. Yes. You want this, I think, and it's intoxicating to me. I see it! that hint of your spaceboy soul, and it's better than drugs. You've come thousands of miles, leaving behind intellectual friends who match your smarts but not your sincerity, to be here on this one beach where you can share this one song with the one group of people who'll take it just like it is.
Or something.
"Yeah?" I ask. I make myself pause. It's hard, but I'm not totally lacking in self-discipline. "You know, this beach, I mean, it's beautiful and all, and it's easy to come here and use it and go back to town, but it's harder to try to give something back."
Now Kit and Marcus are looking at me too. I better think up something good.
"It's not... I mean it's not... I mean it is for the beach, for Mother Nature, but it's more for us, actually. Like the Indians, to try to give something to the spirit of the place, to show we can be humble. To leave something of ours behind."
Rafe, bless him, actually glances up the beach to his bag for a second, but then he looks back at his guitar. He's not even thinking to question this spiritual mumbo jumbo, the rascal. He plain wants to sing for us. I am suddenly so absurdly touched.
"I wrote this song about this one night a couple years ago on the station," he says easily. The first chord is perfect, each string ringing out, in tune and everything. I would know; my brother played guitar for years. Badly. The guys lean forward in the sand, so pleased, I know, to have something new tonight, something other than Tony telling us what he did with his girlfriend. I look away before he begins, because the evening is coming on, and the air is just right, exactly 75 degrees, with a breathlike breeze, and the sun is that soft color that makes it impossible to take bad pictures, or memories. The ocean is a dark blue with waves standing out jagged in the exaggerated relief of sunset. My muscles are warm and ache and I can feel the warmth of the sand on the tops of my burrowing feet and even on the pale skin between my toes.
And Rafe opens his mouth and sings low and perfectly on key, and I don't hear a word of it. It gets to verse three or something and I'm kicking myself because I'm noticing for the fifth time in the past forty-five seconds that I'm not paying attention to his song. I'm paying attention to him. The angle his back takes as he leans over the instrument. The years of practice I see in how his fingers move. The preciseness with which he's trimmed his nails. The freckles on his shamelessly pale arms. The lack of tattoos. The ring I didn't notice until now, a silver ring. His lips... how the curve of his upper lip leaves his white teeth exposed when he opens his mouth to take a breath. How long his eyelashes are. The pointiness of his active, human, insignificant elbows. His elbows!
Pay attention, man!
It's only one night
Tomorrow comes quickly
For sleepers and lovers
And slowly for me
It's only one night
But it's only three-thirty
And I had this same thought
At a quarter to three
It's only one night
And I know tomorrow
Will find me as foolish
As the guilty can be
And it's only one night
And it's only one night
And it hurts and it's still only three-thirty-three.
Well damn it, he's good... And I'm a fool for not being able to listen to the whole song. I don't know what's wrong with me, sometimes. But I let this slip away and there's no way to get it back and I'm chagrined. I clap with the others and gaze at his smile. Somewhere in my self-castigation I know he's the one who's important, that it's what he's feeling that matters. He's happy. That's all.
And the guys are definitely happy. They whoop it up. "Dude, you're good!" says Marcus in awe. "You're good," echoes Kit. He's such a gusher. "You could be, like, on RayRay. You're better than half the singers on RayRay. You should apply."
Rafe is shaking his head, still smiling. The guys can't stop talking. They're all over him with praise. Okay, I am too. "You have perfect pitch, man," I say. "And you know emotion. You're a songwriter. I don't know what you get paid to do back on station, but you're a songwriter."
The sun's going down... we have a delicious evening of food and alcohol and the town and partying ahead of us... tomorrow it's the jungle, and it's just you and me. Your last day. Then you get on a ship and streak away to Tokyo. Tokyo! As if anyone cared about Tokyo...
"So what are you going to leave?" Rafe the songwriter is asking me, and Kit laughs, and I'm so surprised I think it shows on my face. Shit.
"Yeah, Nate, what's your offering to the beach? I gave it my blood, obviously." Kit is talking about his wipeout earlier.
I'm scrambling. What do I know about sacrifice? Being a surfer and a junkie and a tour guide is about take, take, take! Take the sun, take the evening, take the dope, take the money, take the delight, I take it all. Silly. I can't do this. I can't think of anything.
"Dude, all he's got is his shorts," says Tony, guffawing.
"Nooooo!" says Marcus.
Imbeciles. I'm an imbecile too. "I'm leaving something... intangible," I say, not knowing what. Rafe nods at me so I think it's all right. I think I can leave it at that and not be taken for a liar or a cheat. I just don't know how to play this game, all of a sudden.
I don't even know what I'm leaving when we actually leave an hour after the sun goes down. It doesn't matter, I don't think. Tomorrow I'll be doing what I do best.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
I know what you want, part 1
Another ship comes in, its lovely silver hull wavering through the heat. It's like a piece of jewelry. The heat that touches me here on the hill is only the heat of the sun, but it's hot, and I fancy I can feel the heat of the dock, that furnace of light and ozone. It's a beautiful day in San Francisco and I can almost taste the money I'm about to make.
It takes me only fifteen minutes to walk down the hill to the shore. My shadow is huddled under my bare feet. Even through my shades, the light gleaming off the newest ship leaves blue streaks on my vision. Now I feel the heat of the engines. It's hard to even draw in a breath.
I come up to the gate and lean on the railing and watch. There are a lot of tourists... I want somebody my own age for once, a young one. A young, happy one. My eyes follow the stream of men and women clanking down the ramp. They wear such dark clothing in space. They're so serious.
I see a couple--older, by the way they carry themselves--so unconcerned--already pulling out money and heading for a tram. They're wearing head-to-toe black, they both have short hair, they have gold-plated shades. I like that couple. All business. They know where they want to go. But I want... there's a group of young guys, so full of energy, dragging a girl after them, laughing. They're loud, and I don't understand what they're saying. I love their accents but I hear so many dialects here and even I don't understand them all. It could be fun. To rope them over, grab one of their bags, try to convince them by gestures to follow me. But I'm tired after last week and I just want an easy, sweet young tourist, wide-eyed and deep-pocketed.
They come here to have fun. And you can have fun in space, but it's amazing how heavy everything can be in a place known for its lack of gravity. All the good drinks are so expensive. Hell, the ships are expensive. One rowdy night and you're paying for a new titanium fixture for the rest of your life. And watch out who you hook up with because in space, word gets around. Personally, I think it's the vacuum. When you're separated from deadly emptiness by only a foot of cold titanium, your whole life, it's bound to make you serious.
It's funny how folks from out there think of Earth as dangerous. Because it's got animals, because it's got weather, because it's not clean. But I'm here to play into that. I'm here to be your tour guide.
I see several unaccompanied guys on the dock now, gathering their bags and looking around. Blonds, brunettes, redheads. There's one with a guitar on his back... yes, I could take that one. It's so easy. It's easy because I know what they want. Nobody comes to Earth who doesn't want it--at least, not to this station. They've come to get in touch with something, something they've read about, seen on a screen... they want something authentic... most of all, they want to let go of being their serious selves and be Earthlings for a little bit. Just for a vacation, understand. Just temporarily. They want a good excuse to be wild. It tempts them and it scares them at the same time.
But I'm here. So reassuring. And it's so easy. Because I know what they want better than they know it, and that little edge gives me all the confidence in the world. I don't even have to move yet. I did my work ahead of time, mostly the outfit. I look exactly like what they expect: nothing but a pair of shorts, a bandana and a deep tan. And I've gone half-blond from the sun and sometimes I let myself get a little stubbly, but I don't pump iron. Too fake. So I'm a little soft. But it's amazing how the scruffy Earth-boy thing works: someone always ends up making a beeline for me. Stereotypes are so reassuring!
But I want that one--he's walking now, toward the gate, and I push my shades onto my head and just watch him. Without blinking. He's so tall and lean, and straight, I feel like I could plant him here and he'd grow into a poplar in a few years. His black clothing makes him look even leaner. Is he a singer? Maybe he writes poetry too... those dark eyebrows. So serious. And here he comes, drifting with the other passengers through the gate.
"Tour guide!" I yawn at a passing cloud. A clump of dark tourists clank through the gate without making eye contact. "Native Earthling... I know all the places you won't find in the books... reasonable fees..." And as he passes, I grab his elbow and pull him out of the stream with a big grin. "What's your name?"
He stares at me for a moment, looking a little scared. His eyes are, what do they call it, hazel. When they don't fit the label of any other color. "Rafe Savitz," he says.
Rafe. Raphael? His voice is too deep for his skinny body, and he has a little accent... of Gamma Station, perhaps... it's so hard to tell. I wonder how old he is. "I like you," I say, keeping the big grin on my face. "You look like you'd know how to appreciate Earth. Not like most of these folks... they come for a week, they eat and drink a lot, they never see half of what they came to see."
He blinks.
"Look, smile! You're on Earth!" I poke my knuckles in his side and he grins spontaneously, and I think I'm just about going to die. If he's sweet, this could be good. "Look around! Sun's out, birds are singing, we've got a whole city and a beach and a jungle to explore... how long are you here for?"
Rafe adjusts the strap of the guitar on his shoulder. "Just for three days. Then I'm going to Tokyo."
All right. "All right. Listen--" I lean in, looking right in his eyes. "For ten thousand a day, I can show you Earth--the real Earth--I mean, things your friends back home have never seen. Or done. No resorts. No tourist traps. Just real city, real wilderness, real people. All right?"
The guy is beaming. There's a light in his eyes that makes me feel warm just looking at him. He glances around now, looking for copies of me, trying to decide if I'm for real. And there are other tour guides here, Steph and Visor and Jim, working the tourists, and they're all good. I mean they're good at making a dollar and they're good at showing a tourist a good time. But I have this big grin on my face saying "Let's get out of here, just you and me" and somehow Rafe knows I'm not just in it for the money. And I'm not just in it for the work. I want him.
I want that light in his eyes. I want to see his wonder. I want him to have a very, very good time on Earth. Look at him! And there's nothing I love more than making a customer happy... he's so genuine... right from space, with his long fingers, his serious face and sudden smile... I love people but I love this guy. And I've got him.
"Yeah," he says, shrugging the guitar up on his shoulder again. "Okay. Let me get my money."
It takes me only fifteen minutes to walk down the hill to the shore. My shadow is huddled under my bare feet. Even through my shades, the light gleaming off the newest ship leaves blue streaks on my vision. Now I feel the heat of the engines. It's hard to even draw in a breath.
I come up to the gate and lean on the railing and watch. There are a lot of tourists... I want somebody my own age for once, a young one. A young, happy one. My eyes follow the stream of men and women clanking down the ramp. They wear such dark clothing in space. They're so serious.
I see a couple--older, by the way they carry themselves--so unconcerned--already pulling out money and heading for a tram. They're wearing head-to-toe black, they both have short hair, they have gold-plated shades. I like that couple. All business. They know where they want to go. But I want... there's a group of young guys, so full of energy, dragging a girl after them, laughing. They're loud, and I don't understand what they're saying. I love their accents but I hear so many dialects here and even I don't understand them all. It could be fun. To rope them over, grab one of their bags, try to convince them by gestures to follow me. But I'm tired after last week and I just want an easy, sweet young tourist, wide-eyed and deep-pocketed.
They come here to have fun. And you can have fun in space, but it's amazing how heavy everything can be in a place known for its lack of gravity. All the good drinks are so expensive. Hell, the ships are expensive. One rowdy night and you're paying for a new titanium fixture for the rest of your life. And watch out who you hook up with because in space, word gets around. Personally, I think it's the vacuum. When you're separated from deadly emptiness by only a foot of cold titanium, your whole life, it's bound to make you serious.
It's funny how folks from out there think of Earth as dangerous. Because it's got animals, because it's got weather, because it's not clean. But I'm here to play into that. I'm here to be your tour guide.
I see several unaccompanied guys on the dock now, gathering their bags and looking around. Blonds, brunettes, redheads. There's one with a guitar on his back... yes, I could take that one. It's so easy. It's easy because I know what they want. Nobody comes to Earth who doesn't want it--at least, not to this station. They've come to get in touch with something, something they've read about, seen on a screen... they want something authentic... most of all, they want to let go of being their serious selves and be Earthlings for a little bit. Just for a vacation, understand. Just temporarily. They want a good excuse to be wild. It tempts them and it scares them at the same time.
But I'm here. So reassuring. And it's so easy. Because I know what they want better than they know it, and that little edge gives me all the confidence in the world. I don't even have to move yet. I did my work ahead of time, mostly the outfit. I look exactly like what they expect: nothing but a pair of shorts, a bandana and a deep tan. And I've gone half-blond from the sun and sometimes I let myself get a little stubbly, but I don't pump iron. Too fake. So I'm a little soft. But it's amazing how the scruffy Earth-boy thing works: someone always ends up making a beeline for me. Stereotypes are so reassuring!
But I want that one--he's walking now, toward the gate, and I push my shades onto my head and just watch him. Without blinking. He's so tall and lean, and straight, I feel like I could plant him here and he'd grow into a poplar in a few years. His black clothing makes him look even leaner. Is he a singer? Maybe he writes poetry too... those dark eyebrows. So serious. And here he comes, drifting with the other passengers through the gate.
"Tour guide!" I yawn at a passing cloud. A clump of dark tourists clank through the gate without making eye contact. "Native Earthling... I know all the places you won't find in the books... reasonable fees..." And as he passes, I grab his elbow and pull him out of the stream with a big grin. "What's your name?"
He stares at me for a moment, looking a little scared. His eyes are, what do they call it, hazel. When they don't fit the label of any other color. "Rafe Savitz," he says.
Rafe. Raphael? His voice is too deep for his skinny body, and he has a little accent... of Gamma Station, perhaps... it's so hard to tell. I wonder how old he is. "I like you," I say, keeping the big grin on my face. "You look like you'd know how to appreciate Earth. Not like most of these folks... they come for a week, they eat and drink a lot, they never see half of what they came to see."
He blinks.
"Look, smile! You're on Earth!" I poke my knuckles in his side and he grins spontaneously, and I think I'm just about going to die. If he's sweet, this could be good. "Look around! Sun's out, birds are singing, we've got a whole city and a beach and a jungle to explore... how long are you here for?"
Rafe adjusts the strap of the guitar on his shoulder. "Just for three days. Then I'm going to Tokyo."
All right. "All right. Listen--" I lean in, looking right in his eyes. "For ten thousand a day, I can show you Earth--the real Earth--I mean, things your friends back home have never seen. Or done. No resorts. No tourist traps. Just real city, real wilderness, real people. All right?"
The guy is beaming. There's a light in his eyes that makes me feel warm just looking at him. He glances around now, looking for copies of me, trying to decide if I'm for real. And there are other tour guides here, Steph and Visor and Jim, working the tourists, and they're all good. I mean they're good at making a dollar and they're good at showing a tourist a good time. But I have this big grin on my face saying "Let's get out of here, just you and me" and somehow Rafe knows I'm not just in it for the money. And I'm not just in it for the work. I want him.
I want that light in his eyes. I want to see his wonder. I want him to have a very, very good time on Earth. Look at him! And there's nothing I love more than making a customer happy... he's so genuine... right from space, with his long fingers, his serious face and sudden smile... I love people but I love this guy. And I've got him.
"Yeah," he says, shrugging the guitar up on his shoulder again. "Okay. Let me get my money."
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Mosquitoes
Fear of not being good enough
Fear of car breaking down
Fear of losing the apartment
Fear of not making enough money
Fear of having to find another job
Fear of not liking a job
Fear of being trapped
Fear of not knowing what to do
Fear of not breathing right
Fear of fear getting worse
Fear of derision
Fear of not being able to face the fear
Fear of being asked to do the impossible
Fear of missing the boat
Fear of missing a deadly physical ailment
Fear of not doing things right
Fear of not knowing what's expected
Fear of strange things
Fear of having a spider crawling over bare feet
Fear of not knowing what's wrong
Fear of being broken
Fear of doing irreparable harm to a body part
Fear of being paralyzed
Fear of not being able to enjoy anything
Fear of not being able to enjoy something
Fear of not being able to enjoy going out
Fear of being crazy
Fear of going crazy
Fear of doing something wrong that will lead to going crazy
Fear of not knowing the right thing to do to keep from going crazy
Fear of others' impatience
Fear of losing friends
Fear of strangers
Fear of not knowing what to say to strangers
Fear of the telephone
Fear of not being able to see what's in the water
Fear of having something brush against a leg
Fear of dying
Fear of dying in fear
Fear of this continuing forever
Fear of rapists
Fear of bears
Fear of being alone in the woods
Fear of wetting pants
Fear of being bullied
Fear of alligators under the bed
Fear of other people not helping
Fear of letting people get the better of you
Fear of letting dogs get the better of you
Fear of being no good
Fear of being too arrogant
Fear of
Fear of not feeling enough fear to be able to practice feeling fear
AHA!
**swat!**
Fear of car breaking down
Fear of losing the apartment
Fear of not making enough money
Fear of having to find another job
Fear of not liking a job
Fear of being trapped
Fear of not knowing what to do
Fear of not breathing right
Fear of fear getting worse
Fear of derision
Fear of not being able to face the fear
Fear of being asked to do the impossible
Fear of missing the boat
Fear of missing a deadly physical ailment
Fear of not doing things right
Fear of not knowing what's expected
Fear of strange things
Fear of having a spider crawling over bare feet
Fear of not knowing what's wrong
Fear of being broken
Fear of doing irreparable harm to a body part
Fear of being paralyzed
Fear of not being able to enjoy anything
Fear of not being able to enjoy something
Fear of not being able to enjoy going out
Fear of being crazy
Fear of going crazy
Fear of doing something wrong that will lead to going crazy
Fear of not knowing the right thing to do to keep from going crazy
Fear of others' impatience
Fear of losing friends
Fear of strangers
Fear of not knowing what to say to strangers
Fear of the telephone
Fear of not being able to see what's in the water
Fear of having something brush against a leg
Fear of dying
Fear of dying in fear
Fear of this continuing forever
Fear of rapists
Fear of bears
Fear of being alone in the woods
Fear of wetting pants
Fear of being bullied
Fear of alligators under the bed
Fear of other people not helping
Fear of letting people get the better of you
Fear of letting dogs get the better of you
Fear of being no good
Fear of being too arrogant
Fear of
Fear of not feeling enough fear to be able to practice feeling fear
AHA!
**swat!**
Hell is not partial
Becky couldn't catch her breath. The air was so muggy. Her skin felt sticky. It was dark and hot and close under the trees, and the roots perplexed her feet. It was the jungle. She was on a path in the dark, or in just enough light to see the path... the moon was up there, somewhere, tonight... and she wasn't lost. She knew where she was. She just didn't know where she was going. The path was growing fainter and fainter, becoming just a harder patch among softer soils.
Then she saw something and then a split second later a wave of fear washed through her. Her tongue tasted electric. She was shaking. There was a snake... a large snake... on the path. She stood and saw it. It seemed like a dream snake, lying there across the path in the dark, and she didn't know what it was doing. That was the most dreamlike thing, the not knowing. It was an alien. It was unknown.
Becky stood for a minute and the dream feeling buzzed over her. She was scared because of the snake, but she was also scared because she suddenly didn't know who she was. In a jungle? Trying to escape? She was afraid it wasn't real, that she was going crazy. She was afraid it was real. Her heart was in her throat. Her breath was in her throat. Her tongue hurt and she was dizzy.
It was so dark. Things would look different in the light, but it might be 3 AM and it might as well never get light. It was the tropics... wasn't it? The sun might not come up until six... three more hours of walking... but there was this snake.
She felt she ought to go forth, let it bite her, strangle her, constrict her... she was already constricted... she couldn't breathe. She turned around and went back.
***
The next night, there was no more light, but she left again. After the sun went down and she tossed and turned in fear, she went out and slipped out to the path, and began to walk. Her thoughts were so loud in her ears she was afraid she was walking to her death--that she wouldn't hear the panther, or the boar, or a river before she tumbled down its banks into her drowning. It would be the river, her stomach told her. You will fall down a ravine into a river, it will be freezing cold, wet, it will fill your nose and stop your mouth and you'll be terrified for the eternity of drowning. You will be terrified.
It had been like this forever. Fear forever. She hated herself all the time for not being able to stop it and for not being able to go with it. She didn't dream anymore, but when she dreamed she dreamed once of wriggling, under a rock, wriggling like a spider and not going anywhere. Now she slept blackly and when she woke up she had a second or two of being Becky, and then she remembered she was in a nightmare and her chest felt tight as a fist again. It was like waking up and remembering your legs were gone, and would be gone every day for the rest of your life... it was like looking up from a book and remembering your lover has died and you're still grieving, and it all comes down like a ton of bricks.
So here she was in fear on the path. She was trying to get out. She felt she didn't have the strength, the smarts or the willpower to get out, but what else was there to do? It was not going to get better. She was a wreck. She shook all the time. She was covered in insect bites and she still couldn't stop swatting at the mosquitoes... her teeth throbbed from clenching her jaw and from not seeing a dentist in a year. She wasn't afraid for her teeth anymore. That was months ago. But she was afraid of--
The snake. Still there! The alienness of it gripped her. What was it doing? And in the split second between recognizing the snake and feeling the wash of fear, this time, she saw it, saw what lay across the path. It was a rope, a rope. Round and thick and careless, lying on the ground. Her nerves clashed with the afteraffect of terror, jangling like a tambourine. The night was a night of sirens. It was a rope. The snake was forgotten. There was no snake. She stepped over the rope and thumped down the path in the dark, swatting the mosquitos with shuddering hands.
Now she was on new ground. The moon was hidden, far away. The night grew full of sounds, droning sounds of insects and sharp unknown sounds, each of which pierced Becky through with a fear she couldn't defend against. It was like being six years old and sitting on the padded bed and having the doctor hit your knee with the little triangular hammer, and watching astounded as your leg leaped up. She heard the noises and she felt herself jolt with adrenaline and dismay after each one. She groaned aloud with exhaustion and hate. And she walked.
She had been nervous when she came to the Amazon. She had come to try to escape her nervousness. Worrying about her job, about the car, about her parents, worrying about making rent payments, worrying about her heart, about not being able to get into grad school, about being in grad school, about having enough time to volunteer, about not being nice enough, about not walking the dog enough, about her life slipping past and her not enjoying it. She needed help and she grabbed at this, at the opportunity to get away from it all.
She was thinking about these things when she realized she wasn't on the path.
She was so exhausted when the resultant wave of terror hit her that she barely noticed it. She looked up. She looked around. There was no light of dawn and she felt it must be about three or four o'clock. The moon was still up somewhere, but she couldn't see it, only the faintest glow on the ground, her night vision grainy and staticky like a very old TV. She could see things, rocks, if she moved around, if she didn't look directly at them. She turned and tried to go back in the direction she'd come. The soil was soft and spongy under her feet. She groaned again.
Then this is it, this is it, her mind taunted. This is how you die. Lost in the jungle. You'll wander lost for days, and die of starvation, terrified the whole time. This is your fate.
And it was a few minutes and she realized with some surprise that she was on the path again, and the packed sand of it made a little noise beneath her sneakers. She blundered back to camp, tired to the bone.
***
On the third night, she set out exhausted and walked for hours, the noises and the terrors becoming so familiar to her it was like wearing a costume for the sixth week of a play, a long-running play. It was very hot and uncomfortable and it was not her, but she was so used to it. She was terrified and used to it. She hated it and was used to it. Her insect bites were miserable, and the sensation was so familiar to her she felt she could write a full-length book on bites. On itchiness. On the raw pain of too much scratching, the bleeding, the shaking of a body flooded with histamine. On finding her own blood dried under her nails days later. On looking like hell.
She was beginning to get good at being terrified.
When she saw the rope she stepped over it without hesitating, then stopped. She turned around. She was curious. It was so strange to feel something beside fear and pain that for a moment she was awed. And still curious. She followed the rope, heart pounding, and followed it up to the thick tree beside the path... followed it up the thorny bark of the tree... up to where her eyes lost it in darkness. She gripped the rope in both hands, feeling its age and fibrous strength. She could smell it. It was a hemp rope. She set one sneaker then another against the thorns of the tree, and pulled with her shaking arms, lifting one sweating hand over another, pulling herself up the tree.
When she had climbed ten or fifteen feet, she felt a wooden platform above her, and was too tired to be surprised. She grasped breathlessly for something above it, something to hold onto, found a lean weathered board and put all her strength into hauling herself onto the platform. And all her strength was not enough, and she slipped back down, her hands still adequate, cramping, leaving her dangling from wood and rope while her whole body shook.
Without thinking she tried again, trying to try harder, put even more into it, clench her whole body... and she felt herself lifting up... and took her hand off the rope to reach up and grasp, found something unknown that held her, and beached herself on the small platform.
After a minute or two she tried to sit up. It was pitch black. She couldn't lean back against the tree for the thorns, and the platform was only a couple feet wide. She felt above her. There was more rope, and wooden slats of some kind. But she was gone, empty, and wanted to rest. She would rest until it got light.
She didn't notice when the sky began to lighten. She was thinking about the people back in camp, and then she noticed she could see again, just barely. There were slender trunks all around her, giant leaves in places, and behind her the thorns on the bark were taking shape. She could see her hands. She wondered if they looked like her hands, or some stranger's hands. Everything had been so strange. She didn't even know.
She had come to the Amazon to join Right Intentions, a group of mismatched seekers trying to live harmoniously and help the natives and... she wasn't sure. She had been desperate when she saw their web site, she remembered. She had had a feeling that she had to go, had to do something like this, live more simply, reach out and help others, or she'd always be stuck in the same miserable and self-absorbed place in her life. She felt compelled and she had signed on and taken her dog to her sister's and booked the flight on the dull energy of compulsion.
Nothing had been like she'd expected. The living conditions had been not just primitive, but truly shitty, poorly looked after, falling apart. Dirty. Unsanitary, yes. Jerry, the leader of the group, was charismatic in a slightly hypnotic way... at least, his absolute confidence was attractive... but he was more of a jerk than anything else. He always worked without a shirt on, he called Becky "honey" and whenever she worried aloud about malaria, he laughed. Not a laugh that made light of her fears, but a laugh that enjoyed them. He thought she was funny. And he smoked. And then there was Matt, who was in love with Becky and who she felt she had to sleep with... his dirty hair and freckled, almost translucent skin that made her think queasily of her dog's belly... God... what did she just think? Why did she think that? Why should she have to sleep with him?
As it got lighter she realized there was indeed a ladder above her, and some kind of structure far overhead in the canopy. The birds were very active, all kinds, so loud they almost hurt her ears. There was one that made a noise like the metallic squeak her oven made when she opened the door to put a pan of brownies in at home. In a moment she would stand and climb up to the platform, to see if she could see a river or a town or farms in the distance, carved out of the jungle, places where she could make a phone call or hire a boat... She didn't speak Spanish. She was too numb to be afraid of that. She had felt desperate to get out, and now that she was out she knew the desperation was unnecessary, but here she was.
Then she saw something and then a split second later a wave of fear washed through her. Her tongue tasted electric. She was shaking. There was a snake... a large snake... on the path. She stood and saw it. It seemed like a dream snake, lying there across the path in the dark, and she didn't know what it was doing. That was the most dreamlike thing, the not knowing. It was an alien. It was unknown.
Becky stood for a minute and the dream feeling buzzed over her. She was scared because of the snake, but she was also scared because she suddenly didn't know who she was. In a jungle? Trying to escape? She was afraid it wasn't real, that she was going crazy. She was afraid it was real. Her heart was in her throat. Her breath was in her throat. Her tongue hurt and she was dizzy.
It was so dark. Things would look different in the light, but it might be 3 AM and it might as well never get light. It was the tropics... wasn't it? The sun might not come up until six... three more hours of walking... but there was this snake.
She felt she ought to go forth, let it bite her, strangle her, constrict her... she was already constricted... she couldn't breathe. She turned around and went back.
***
The next night, there was no more light, but she left again. After the sun went down and she tossed and turned in fear, she went out and slipped out to the path, and began to walk. Her thoughts were so loud in her ears she was afraid she was walking to her death--that she wouldn't hear the panther, or the boar, or a river before she tumbled down its banks into her drowning. It would be the river, her stomach told her. You will fall down a ravine into a river, it will be freezing cold, wet, it will fill your nose and stop your mouth and you'll be terrified for the eternity of drowning. You will be terrified.
It had been like this forever. Fear forever. She hated herself all the time for not being able to stop it and for not being able to go with it. She didn't dream anymore, but when she dreamed she dreamed once of wriggling, under a rock, wriggling like a spider and not going anywhere. Now she slept blackly and when she woke up she had a second or two of being Becky, and then she remembered she was in a nightmare and her chest felt tight as a fist again. It was like waking up and remembering your legs were gone, and would be gone every day for the rest of your life... it was like looking up from a book and remembering your lover has died and you're still grieving, and it all comes down like a ton of bricks.
So here she was in fear on the path. She was trying to get out. She felt she didn't have the strength, the smarts or the willpower to get out, but what else was there to do? It was not going to get better. She was a wreck. She shook all the time. She was covered in insect bites and she still couldn't stop swatting at the mosquitoes... her teeth throbbed from clenching her jaw and from not seeing a dentist in a year. She wasn't afraid for her teeth anymore. That was months ago. But she was afraid of--
The snake. Still there! The alienness of it gripped her. What was it doing? And in the split second between recognizing the snake and feeling the wash of fear, this time, she saw it, saw what lay across the path. It was a rope, a rope. Round and thick and careless, lying on the ground. Her nerves clashed with the afteraffect of terror, jangling like a tambourine. The night was a night of sirens. It was a rope. The snake was forgotten. There was no snake. She stepped over the rope and thumped down the path in the dark, swatting the mosquitos with shuddering hands.
Now she was on new ground. The moon was hidden, far away. The night grew full of sounds, droning sounds of insects and sharp unknown sounds, each of which pierced Becky through with a fear she couldn't defend against. It was like being six years old and sitting on the padded bed and having the doctor hit your knee with the little triangular hammer, and watching astounded as your leg leaped up. She heard the noises and she felt herself jolt with adrenaline and dismay after each one. She groaned aloud with exhaustion and hate. And she walked.
She had been nervous when she came to the Amazon. She had come to try to escape her nervousness. Worrying about her job, about the car, about her parents, worrying about making rent payments, worrying about her heart, about not being able to get into grad school, about being in grad school, about having enough time to volunteer, about not being nice enough, about not walking the dog enough, about her life slipping past and her not enjoying it. She needed help and she grabbed at this, at the opportunity to get away from it all.
She was thinking about these things when she realized she wasn't on the path.
She was so exhausted when the resultant wave of terror hit her that she barely noticed it. She looked up. She looked around. There was no light of dawn and she felt it must be about three or four o'clock. The moon was still up somewhere, but she couldn't see it, only the faintest glow on the ground, her night vision grainy and staticky like a very old TV. She could see things, rocks, if she moved around, if she didn't look directly at them. She turned and tried to go back in the direction she'd come. The soil was soft and spongy under her feet. She groaned again.
Then this is it, this is it, her mind taunted. This is how you die. Lost in the jungle. You'll wander lost for days, and die of starvation, terrified the whole time. This is your fate.
And it was a few minutes and she realized with some surprise that she was on the path again, and the packed sand of it made a little noise beneath her sneakers. She blundered back to camp, tired to the bone.
***
On the third night, she set out exhausted and walked for hours, the noises and the terrors becoming so familiar to her it was like wearing a costume for the sixth week of a play, a long-running play. It was very hot and uncomfortable and it was not her, but she was so used to it. She was terrified and used to it. She hated it and was used to it. Her insect bites were miserable, and the sensation was so familiar to her she felt she could write a full-length book on bites. On itchiness. On the raw pain of too much scratching, the bleeding, the shaking of a body flooded with histamine. On finding her own blood dried under her nails days later. On looking like hell.
She was beginning to get good at being terrified.
When she saw the rope she stepped over it without hesitating, then stopped. She turned around. She was curious. It was so strange to feel something beside fear and pain that for a moment she was awed. And still curious. She followed the rope, heart pounding, and followed it up to the thick tree beside the path... followed it up the thorny bark of the tree... up to where her eyes lost it in darkness. She gripped the rope in both hands, feeling its age and fibrous strength. She could smell it. It was a hemp rope. She set one sneaker then another against the thorns of the tree, and pulled with her shaking arms, lifting one sweating hand over another, pulling herself up the tree.
When she had climbed ten or fifteen feet, she felt a wooden platform above her, and was too tired to be surprised. She grasped breathlessly for something above it, something to hold onto, found a lean weathered board and put all her strength into hauling herself onto the platform. And all her strength was not enough, and she slipped back down, her hands still adequate, cramping, leaving her dangling from wood and rope while her whole body shook.
Without thinking she tried again, trying to try harder, put even more into it, clench her whole body... and she felt herself lifting up... and took her hand off the rope to reach up and grasp, found something unknown that held her, and beached herself on the small platform.
After a minute or two she tried to sit up. It was pitch black. She couldn't lean back against the tree for the thorns, and the platform was only a couple feet wide. She felt above her. There was more rope, and wooden slats of some kind. But she was gone, empty, and wanted to rest. She would rest until it got light.
She didn't notice when the sky began to lighten. She was thinking about the people back in camp, and then she noticed she could see again, just barely. There were slender trunks all around her, giant leaves in places, and behind her the thorns on the bark were taking shape. She could see her hands. She wondered if they looked like her hands, or some stranger's hands. Everything had been so strange. She didn't even know.
She had come to the Amazon to join Right Intentions, a group of mismatched seekers trying to live harmoniously and help the natives and... she wasn't sure. She had been desperate when she saw their web site, she remembered. She had had a feeling that she had to go, had to do something like this, live more simply, reach out and help others, or she'd always be stuck in the same miserable and self-absorbed place in her life. She felt compelled and she had signed on and taken her dog to her sister's and booked the flight on the dull energy of compulsion.
Nothing had been like she'd expected. The living conditions had been not just primitive, but truly shitty, poorly looked after, falling apart. Dirty. Unsanitary, yes. Jerry, the leader of the group, was charismatic in a slightly hypnotic way... at least, his absolute confidence was attractive... but he was more of a jerk than anything else. He always worked without a shirt on, he called Becky "honey" and whenever she worried aloud about malaria, he laughed. Not a laugh that made light of her fears, but a laugh that enjoyed them. He thought she was funny. And he smoked. And then there was Matt, who was in love with Becky and who she felt she had to sleep with... his dirty hair and freckled, almost translucent skin that made her think queasily of her dog's belly... God... what did she just think? Why did she think that? Why should she have to sleep with him?
As it got lighter she realized there was indeed a ladder above her, and some kind of structure far overhead in the canopy. The birds were very active, all kinds, so loud they almost hurt her ears. There was one that made a noise like the metallic squeak her oven made when she opened the door to put a pan of brownies in at home. In a moment she would stand and climb up to the platform, to see if she could see a river or a town or farms in the distance, carved out of the jungle, places where she could make a phone call or hire a boat... She didn't speak Spanish. She was too numb to be afraid of that. She had felt desperate to get out, and now that she was out she knew the desperation was unnecessary, but here she was.
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