Jul

15

Song in Plaster: Sleeping States, “Rivers”

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It takes a solid minute for the song to become more than nonsense, but when it does it's worth it.

[The first minute of the track is nonsense, after which there is a proper song. Don’t be discouraged, skip ahead.]

That morning we found it hot and muggy inside, but walked out the door into a cool morning. We returned inside for sweaters. We remarked about the way that a good rain cools off, and that last night, coming back to the car from the restaurant, the pavement still hadn’t cooled and radiated a vapor up at us. We walked down to the river, along the path filled with rough rock and green tree light and animal excrement. Mostly animal excrement.

You sat forward in the bow. You being a whisp, I ascended the gunwale at the back, arms striking out at my sides for balance. The new sun balanced on your head, your powder white skin glowing and now translucent. You sat facing me, staring the way that Christopher Walken might, were he beautiful and a woman. “Remember,” I said, “do not let go.” I began to dip.

The tradition of gunwale hopping is an oral tradition, as well as a naval one. Not even Internet marks it. The Hurons developed the practice. The hopper, skilled and possessed of remarkable agility, dips and rises. The entire canoe dips and rises, and makes forward progress. The angle between the bottom of the canoe and the water grows and shrinks. At the point of convergence, after every dip, the canoe body smacks against the water, creating a sound that is roughly translated as “The Transcendence of the Hopper” which the Hurons once used to herd enormous schools of trout and pike into breeding waters to increase the chances of interbreeding and hybridization, a tradition later assumed by Dow Chemical research scientists.

In the first dip you prepared yourself for the rise, gripped the seat. You continued your stare. At the first impact of the boat bottom on the river top the shock shook you. I watched the waves reverberate in your lips and your eyes widen. I smiled at your surprise. However, I also felt some concern that this would not be enjoyable. The concussions could have impressed themselves with too much force. You might lose your grip there after a hop. After the rhythm established itself though, you gained an ease.

The sun ascended slowly, and the canoe smacked across the water. The work of hopping weighs hard on the thighs and buttocks, but I felt myself tireless. If anything my vigor increased. I felt as though no one had ever truly gunwale hopped previous to this excursion. And your expression changed. You lost all concern. You lost all rigidity in your features. You lost your subtle evocation of Christopher Walken. You conformed yourself for the hopping, watching my eyes for the cues, me watching your eyes for the cues, conforming the hopping. You drove me on, and the angle of the highest arc increased with each rise and fall, closer and closer to ninety degrees. As it happened, I saw it. I don’t know why I did not say anything. I did not feel dumbstruck; perhaps I did not feel fearful enough. In the joy of the moment, as I began the deepest dip yet, your hands loosened their grip, you threw them over your head, and you flew through the air.

The loss of your weight in the boat was just enough to allow the arc to continue, uninhibited. The boat came over on me, black as a coffin. It only missed braining me by a margin, because I sank beneath the water. I scrambled out from under the boat to find where you’d gone. I circled, paddling, but saw no trace. I righted the boat and stood in its center and looked. I shaded my eyes with my hands and looked toward the sun. I glanced fleetingly. I could see a dark spot against the orange. The size of a cherry. The size of a cranberry. The size of a cherry pit. The size of a pike-trout egg.

I know everyone claims that the moon has existed for millennia, but I never saw it until that night as I lay alone in the bottom of the canoe, unable to think about anything except you gone. I watched the moon. I knew that the moon now had your face, powder white. I knew that you had become the moon, reflecting the sun, watching me, wearing an expression like Christopher Walken.

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Sleeping States – “Rivers” mp3

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Comments

One Response to “Song in Plaster: Sleeping States, “Rivers””

  1. Pamela H. Stevenson on July 15th, 2009 1:40 pm

    Tom and I read this together. We really like it.

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