In, out. In, out. I could hardly pay attention to the musings of my own diaphragm. Sight walked out the door, hearing took over feel, and all that was in my head was the sound of air being slowly funneled through nostrils around me.
The Apaches used to train children in long distance running by instructing them to take a gulp of water and hold it there while running barefoot through the Chiricahua Mountains, past the briars and rattlesnakes, ignoring all but the one task of focusing on not-swallowing. The upcoming task of spitting the mouthful of Colorado River at the finish-line forced nasal breathing and melted thorns and snakebite into afterthoughts. All you had to focus on was breath.
Apaches ran alone though, or in smaller groups, out in the open. It was harder in this basement, flooded by the hammers and hums of artificial light illuminating the plastic desk that I sat in, rather than the sounds of the desert. I had to make my own.
I thought of one of my favorite places, an undulating mass of Delaware River down the street from the Lambertville Fire Station that gave it it's name, Fireman's Eddy. At the Eddy, the jutting out of a rock formation caused the river to flow backwards, only for about a 20 yard stretch ten yards out. Yet, these swirling 200 yards made a certain, indescribable yet instantly recognizable sound of fighting currents. This sound was what I used to draw out the hums of electric light, the cacophony of the teacher next door, replacing all breaths in full of river water and out full of river water.
(This post is dedicated to my English professor, Richard Doyle, someone whose advice has exponentially improved my writing and therefore, this blog. Based off of a writing exercise we did in class.)
No comments:
Post a Comment