Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

You came here, to the page, to ask for forgiveness. You came here to tell her you are sorry that you wouldn’t let her hold you in this open water. You came here to tell her how selfish it was to let yourself drown.

You came here to tell the truth. That you are scared and heavy. That sometimes this weight is too heavy. The ache in your chest fills, bulbous and stretched, and though you wish it would, the ache will not burst.

Saidiya Hartman describes the journey of Black people from chattel to men and women, and how this new status was a type of freedom if only by name; that the ­re-­subordination of those emancipated was only natural considering the power structures in which this freedom was and continues to operate within. Rendering the Black body as a species body, encouraging a Blackness which is defined as abject, threatening, servile, dangerous, dependent, irrational and infectious, finding yourself being constrained in a way you did not ask for, in a way which could not possibly contain all that you are, all that you could be, could want to be. That is what you are being framed as, a container, a vessel, a body, you have been made a body, all those years ago, before your lifetime, before anyone else who is currently in your lifetime, and now you are here, a body, you have been made a body, and sometimes this is hard, because you know you are so much more. Sometimes this weight is too heavy. The ache in your chest fills, bulbous and stretched, and though you wish it would, the ache will not burst. You are thinking of booking into therapy, and explaining that you feel like you were made a body, a vessel, a container, and that you are worried, because the days when you believe this are becoming more frequent.

You came here to say you are scared you have long been marked for destruction.

You came here to talk about the seagull. Does she remember? There was no blood. Sprawled out on its back, wings splayed. Head at a peculiar angle, a part of itself forced into where it couldn’t fit. The theories came with each observation. From a height, perhaps? A brave bird perched on a balcony, given a nudge. But would it not fly? Would there not be more of a mess, rather than the majestic way this creature had been laid to rest? There was no blood. You concluded the seagull had its neck snapped by human hand and you wanted to know how, who and why. You went back and forth but grew no closer to a complete truth. You could only guess. The spectacle occupied your lives for a few more moments. You watched the cars avoid the dead; you imagined the drivers nudging the steering wheel slightly, before readjusting their course and driving on.

Teju Cole describes how death arrives absurdly, in the midst of banality. In his essay ‘Death in the Browser Tab’, he talks about Walter Scott. This man, Walter Scott, knows that while he is being questioned by a police officer, a rigid tension exists that, when shattered, will result in his destruction. Cole is talking about watching a man who knows he is dying, who has been playing it cool, playing it cool, until the moment he flees, for freedom, because freedom is really the distance between hunter and prey. Cole talks about being stunned. Plunged into someone else’s crisis, someone else’s horror. But doesn’t he know? Of course he does. But what do you do with the things you don’t want to know?

You came here to talk about one of your earliest memories, in which you did not have the luxury of a browser tab. It was a window first, an open window. A stillness to the soft shine of spring. Quiet, here. Your father parked on the wrong side of the petrol pump, but you were in the midst of a fuel shortage so watched as he dragged the hose round the pale green of the family car. You leaned your head out of the open window to smile at him. He was not there. His body was stood to attention, caught in the rigid tension of a man who knows that, if this shatters, it will result in his destruction. The police officer saw your father watching a young man being questioned and your father turned away, placing imagined distance between hunter and prey. Your father rushed towards the pay kiosk and you imagine he was flustered, forgoing his usual charm, dull glitter in his eye like a speck of dust. All the while, the young man was being questioned by two policemen. He was beautiful. A child, somebody’s child! Don’t you lie to me, you hear one say to him. You didn’t have a name for it then, the shoulders hitched up to his ears, eyes widened, the stuttered profession of innocence. You looked to your mother for explanation or clarity, because there didn’t appear to be reason for this. You wanted to know how, who and why. Turning back to the window, a flash of light like a quick shadow. The young man’s hair had escaped his hairband. He was trying to fly away, towards a freedom he knew could only be found in the distance between hunter and prey. A nudge and he was sprawled out on his back, wings splayed. Head at a peculiar angle, a part of himself forced into where he couldn’t fit. Arms, too, twisted behind his back as blows rained from black batons painting beautiful skin with fresh wounds. Flashes of darkness, where the light was leaving him. There was no blood. Death is not always physical.

You came here to say there was no blood when, a couple of years ago, your discomfort emerged into a fresh pain. You were coming down a set of marble stairs, running a hand along