First, there’s a phase of arousal, like a piece of news or a password that incites them: leave the reeds, the pools, leave eighteen years of hollow in the rocks, return. Some remote chemical equation holds the veiled memory of their origins, an undulating constellation of sargassum, salt in the throat, the Atlantic warmth, the monsters lying in wait, telephone or parachute medusas, the stunned glove of the octopus. The silent clamor of underwater currents, their inescapable veins; the sky is like that too on clear nights when the stars amalgamate in a single pressure, conspiring and hostile, rejecting a re-encounter, the nomenclatures, putting up a velvety unreachableness to the lens that encircles and abstracts them, rushing in ten, a hundred at a time in the same field of vision …
i see, i like.
