AUGUST, 1993
We reached the falls. They weren't spectacular, but she wanted to get a straight-on shot of them. I stood from the view-point, near the sign that read "DANGER! DO NOT LEAVE TRAIL!" and watched her go for her picture. She climbed on some of the more accessible rocks and tried to work her way out into the center of the rushing stream. At last she could go no further without actually venturing into the post-fall rapids.
She stuck one foot into the water. "What are you doing?" I asked quietly. I could have shouted and she wouldn't have been able to hear me. And even if she could hear me plainly, she would have politely ignored me.
She stuck another foot in the water and I left my perch to go by the water's edge. On her third step, the water whisked her away. She went under for a moment and came back up, steering herself to a large boulder. She climbed out of the water.
Laughing, she said, "Here, take my
camera."
I looked through the viewfinder that was filled with water. She laughed some more as she opened the camera and water spilled from it. At the parking lot she wouldn't let me take a picture of her throwing it away..
British Columbia, 1993. I laid on the rocks
with the crystal water rushing past me. My companion crossed the river -- the rushing
water cold and fast. I laid my head back and slid my shirt off, allowing myself the last
hot sun of the summer's warmth. The hard rock felt more comfortable than my bed. I laid my
head back on the rock and I was overcome with images from the preceeding year.
I have never felt out of control since Ann left, but I never really noticed the sheer mass of activity I was involved in. In those twelve months since Ann left, I had only one month where I did not leave the state. The people, the travel, the intensity of the previous year hit me. The white noise of the water was like a filter. I saw the year as a chart of activity. Linear. Comprehensible, if only on that rather simplistic variable.
There was this feeling when I first met Carolyn in Washington D.C.. Something had loosened. Something had changed. There was this instantaneous feeling of freedom -- of non-urgency. At that time I did not know what to make of it. Was this Carolyn? Was this some sort of biochemical magic on her part?
I'm sure it was in some way. But I think that it was also a graduation into my life away from Ann. It was clear that life would go on in any event, no matter how I felt about things. No one would ever be "the next Ann" and there wasn't going to be a replacement for her -- such would be irrelevant because I am no longer the person I was when she lived with me. In order to continue a relationship, even if you recognize that both will change -- there is always this pressure to remain consistent. In responding to those pressures, we mold our growth. This is true for any life choice we make, be it personal, professional, philosophical, political or whatever. In the short time since Ann and I parted, we have both changed in profound ways.
I opened my eyes and watched Carolyn climb down an embankment and work her way across some rocks. She seemed a natural part of the picture I was viewing, like a bird or a fish. The sun had warmed me and the rock equally, so I felt part of the landscape. I smiled and closed my eyes again.
We sat quiet on the bank by the ocean,
the sun setting. Red Orange
The Olympics far distant and blue
viewed from Canada, and you could tell
somehow
Barefoot, in the cold surf,
my feet swelled.
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