Monday, May 18, 2009

Chapter 1

The manner of your death never seems important until the moment it arrives.
At that moment, that razor's edge between now and eternity, every detail becomes precious, finite, intricate and unforgettable.
This morning the sun sits wet and slack in the early sky like an orange squeezed and juiced. The heavy slap of the sails and the ghost whispers through the shrouds herald a storm that will blow itself out and leave the ground littered with scraps of life: leaves, paper cups, deflated jellyfish, used condoms, a baby's shoe never worn.
Each piece a whole and perfect silent story.
It is a strange place to die; birth is a forgotten ride at an amusement park.

...my feet walking forward seemingly of their own volition into the golden surf, laughing, my mind referencing rumor of how my favorite lyricist from Pink Floyd screamed,"Don't drink me...I'm a glass of orange juice!" at anyone who approached him when he "lost it"; the theme song of Mash lamely playing on the broken record player of my brain.
The pills I took left me and the calm assurance with which I steeled myself, as I slipped beneath the waves, the last breathe of air I would ever take slipping up and away from my lips in a spiral of bubbles resembling the galaxy I told myself I was about to leave.
My choice I told myself,seconds before I was swallowed by a whale,introduced to a whole new culture,and taken to the center of the world in the mouth of a very large mammal to partake in an adventure which I'm sure even the most open minds will find hard to believe.