I am sitting down to read "Leaving the Sea" -- the short piece of writing for which this book is titled. It is basically a six-page sentence. Today is Tuesday, Feb. 18th. It's 11am. It's starting to snow and I could use another cup of coffee. The commute tonight promises to be several hours.
11:06am - Halfway done.
11:14am - OK, that was great.
"...before our house started leaning, started hissing when the wind came up after sunset, a house no different from a gut-shot animal listing into the woods, a woods no different from a spray of wire bursting through the earth, an earth no different from a leaking sack of water, soft in the middle and made of mush..."
Leaving the Sea (the title of the book, and this story specifically) is (I think) about a loss of innocence and a step into constant struggle.
"...so that they could jump on me and ride on me and kick into the place where I would have gills if I were something better that had never tried to leave the sea..."
The sea is our ultimate home. When we left the sea to walk the earth we chose endless struggle over endless gliding and beauty. Oh well.
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