From such a craggy ridge as this, a plunge into the water could
lead to a surface covered with a kind of plant. The plant entices
divers to become entangled: green and leafy, vine-like invitation
to a different kind of world. Once captured by this most extraordinary
foliage of the deep, a visitor will spot an underwater tram that
travels to a place where homes are bubbles tinted in the rainbow
hues and lit (as if emotionally) from within. Lit bubbles are inhabited;
the unlit ones, they are another matter altogether. Now, tram passenger,
your job is, choose a bubble, lit. Look over there, the color and
the glow: this is enough to make a diver think she's found
what she has always looked for (though she never even knew that
she'd been looking until now). Hold out a finger. Gold-dipped
is how fingers look when pointed at such hopeful sights as these.
The tram will stop, all seats will lean, and, ushered by the little
wing-finned creatures congregating in a cluster near the tram, you'll
swim quite confidently out.
As you proceed towards your selection,
passing in between the darks and lights, you more than likely are
recalling leaves and vines that grew as if in an attempt to cover
everything there ever was. This overgrowth, a type of memory in
fact, it rocks you in the manner of the darkest underwater pleasure
you have yet encountered: dotted with bright underwater blooms,
the covering (such a strangely futuristic image) brings to mind
a kind of drifting. "Drifting" is another word, of course,
for being driven by the Himalayan wind that rushes hard across a
mountaintop and causes snow to move in such a way to cover rocks
and stumps along the ridges and the flat spots; "burial"
is for making space for yet more bodies underneath the sun-swept
green and rolling surface of the earth.
Ignore the unlit bubbles, please.
Go towards the one you chose when you were on the tram. And swim
on just as confidently over pale and spiky corals and the incandescent
creatures of the deep that sway like plants possessed with delicate
illuminated skeletal agility. Such stunning colors, such impossibly
alluring silent movement—"They will no doubt be returning
to my thoughts," you tell yourself, "long after all
of this is over" (like a memory of a mother, father...though
such memories always seem to blur along the lines and empty out
inside until they've filled in rather suddenly with dirt and
clumps and rocky, tufty stuff). An edgeless, dirt-filled image such
as that can bring the thickest tears to one's as yet unopened
eyes. "It's like a tower that was there until it suddenly
was not there," you tell yourself, "and what is there
instead is something ghostlike; edgeless, but vertiginous. Pure
heartache from the bottom to the top."
The tram? Still waiting; though your
colorful little escorts, you will notice, have already flitted off.
Out here, so far below it all, you
are presented for the first time ever with the image of a wide expanse
of dirt-and-tuft-plugged holes. "I can't get in,"
you think. "It all seems hopeless. Pointless." Working
quickly, though, and kicking lightly, you will soon discover that
the surface of a bubble is not totally impenetrable. "Can't
be. He or she is in there somewhere. Had to get in, has to get out.
Somehow." And, in fact, there is a door that you will find
(look for its etched-in outline to have cut across your finger)
after you've become so gently captured by the current swirling
softly now around the bubble you have chosen, lit, it's nice
to see, as if compassionately from within. And this suggestion of
a door, when spoken into, either opens or does not. That's
how things go around here, where the bubbles that are lit, along
with those as dark as anything, make for a kind of pattern, seen
from up above, no different from the sky at night if watched from
underneath a certain depth of dirt. In any case, the tram has got
to scoot. For those who hover about what seems to be a doorway,
trams cannot just sit and wait out here indefinitely.