Return to the Sea

JL Bogenschneider is a writer of short fiction, with work published in a number of print and online journals, including The Stinging Fly, Cosmonauts Avenue, The Interpreter’s House, PANK and Ambit.

Their chapbook, ‘Fears For The Near Future‘, published under the name CS Mierscheid, is available from Neon Books.

(Photos are courtesy of: Unplash.com)

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We miss you. All of you and everything: the components that were known, unknown and those neglected parts that even now we’re finding so many uses for in their absence. We miss the filling-in that was you and find ourselves resentful of spaces you might have occupied. For example, this space right here and paradoxically even the more plentiful person-to-oxygen ratio does not allow us to breathe more easily, because frequently the missing of you causes us to lose our breath and anxieate. Also, the extra room does not compensate us in the slightest. Not even. Not one bit.

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We understand. We hear what you’re saying; we read what you’re saying, because your missives in bottles do reach us eventually. The postal service here is not what it is there. We miss you also, but wish you were here, not that we were there. Although one of the reasons things are better here is because you are not. Here. Sorry. Not to get personal, but it’s to do with the space, of which there is more because you – us, we – are not all taking it up. More than that though, and this forms part of the wishing you were here, because things are so beautiful now. Perhaps our eyes had become jaded landside and maybe all this will lose its novelty one day. But for now…

By the by, we’d prefer it if you used glass bottles for the sending of communiques and not plastic. We hope, by now, you know why.

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There are times when we find ourselves angry with you. Not with the facts of you, although – OK – that is sometimes a problem. And not for the choices you made, but actually and also, yes, the choices. Because you chose to leave us. We have heard the counter-reasonings that it isn’t possible to leave behind what couldn’t follow, but semantics-schemantics. What is it even like where you are, we wonder to ourselves, and then say we don’t care. This is both true and not. Had we found ourselves in your position we would not have made the same decision. This is also both true and not. There are many things about which we are both ambivalent and contrary these days and we’re beginning to forget it was not always thus.

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We hear and understand your anger, but such understanding occurs less. Truth is, there are fewer things to be angry about here. No, that isn’t quite right. There are still things to be angry about and we refer you to our last M.S. w/r/t using glass bottles and not plastics, for which we are still waiting btw. But our anger articulates itself in a manner so different so as to be not anger at all. It is…

Righteous sanguinity has been one suggestion. Can you understand that? Down here it feels self-evident, almost idiomatic, but we are not so arrogant as to forget what it was like to feel the way you do about things. The way we once also did. Honestly and given the option, we would not come back, not even for you. Although – and please believe us – we still miss you. If ever you find that you can, come join us.

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We have decided to speak as one because solidarity means sticking together, which also means not abandoning one another, which is what you did. Abandon us. We know you see it that way too. And while we look out of our windows all wistful, what do you look out of? The answer is nothing, because there is only darkness where you are, we are sure of that. Are we? Some of us think you might have adapted by now. That your sight is more heightened, or developed, or else your other senses have evolved to the extent that you no longer require sight and do you even remember what we look like anymore, because is that how sight works, like a memory-thing or what? What do you even look like now? These are the questions we would ask if you were here, but you are not and so we can’t and so we don’t.

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We admire and respect your solidarity. Don’t forget that we still love you, even though we disagree with your point about the abandonment thing. Which is a notion we must disabuse you of: we don’t see it that way and never have done. But in answer to your question, because of course we wish you to know how things are here: we don’t look out of anything, it’s more that we look into. There is a lot of peering required of us now. Does that make sense? We hope so, because it is another thing that has become self-evident and thus hard to explain, although we will try:

You are right: we have adapted and it happened so quickly you wouldn’t believe. We see a darkness here, it’s true, but a darkness that means something else. Something new. Darkness here means bad, sad, or evil and so on, no more than light here means good, happy, or not-evil, etc. We would say they are both sides of the same coin if there were coins down here, which there are not, and so we would not say that, because even though we might understand the metaphor, the context no longer exists. Why is that? That there are no coins down here? Some of us seem to recall a sort of coin and water thing going on when we were landside. Is that still a thing or what? It’s not that we need them, we were just wondering. But that dark and light are part of the same spectrum, which is true of where you are, we know, only you look at them as extremes, whereas for us the spectrum is circular, or Möbius-like, where dark and light exist exactly where they are and are no more extreme than anything else.

Did that make sense? We fear not but hope you will still somehow understand. We want you to understand. We want to be understood. That is something which has not changed.

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We who have been left behind are both together and divided. Together because we are the scurf united by our left-behindedness, but divided because there are those of us who profess to understand your actions, because they say we would have made the same decision as you if we could, although they are wrong, of course they are wrong, because most of us swear we would never ever never have left you behind if that had been our choice.

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There was no choice. Believe that. Have you forgotten the gasping of us and the shortness of breath? That we were falling to the floor? Flopping, flapping and dying. How could you have forgotten that? And the desperate rush to the beaches and the many, many deaths of those who could not reach even a half-filled bath in time. Have you really forgotten all that?

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Those of us who have never learned to swim believe that even if by some fluke or miracle or whatever, it turned out we could return to the sea, we would find ourselves unable to do it. To commit. To take the plunge. To dive in head first, or to cannonball from a great or small height, or to wade in tentatively, shivering until temperature differentials settle and equalise and actually, it doesn’t seem such a bad idea, to return from whence we came, like ashes to ashes and dust to dust, although some of us can’t even float with a rubber ring for god’s sake, not even with water wings. But no: everyone has a choice.

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We still have nightmares about: our mothers and fathers, our brothers and sisters, our children and grandparents, friends and lovers, wives and husbands, neighbours, colleagues and acquaintances who died with their heads in inadequate sinks, or whilst attempting to submerge themselves within their children’s inflatable swimming pool, or else couldn’t get across the road to reach the municipal baths, or the duck pond in the park, or else died from the impact of their body hitting the water of the reservoir from a great height whilst out hiking, or simply did not know what happening and asphyxiated right there at the breakfast table, drowning in air. We won’t say this again: there was no choice.

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Some of us spend our quieter moments in rooms that had formerly housed you, where we draw our fingers across dust-strewn shelves, or else keep the same shelves dust-free in case you unreturn, or perhaps it’s just a distraction. Is there dust where you are? We don’t know and so look it up online, gathered round a small phone with a broken screen. Of course there is and don’t we feel silly for even asking, but just that we wanted to know.

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Actually, is there dust? We’re not sure ourselves and so will logic:

There are particles, we assume, because we still have knowledge (some of us are oceanologists, geologists, fluvial-experts) even if that knowledge can’t always be used anymore because of a lack of test tubes and Bunsen burners and clamp stands, although some of us are experimenting with shells and volcanic vents and obliging octopi. But dust, dry particulates that rest and accumulate and are occasionally stirred because of a wind (which is a kind of current) causing us to become wistful and sneezy? No. There is no dust here.

But, you know, we have bottles, and plenty because of previous correspondences that came prior to certain and particular advances in chemistry, which is why our M.S.s reach you in the vitreous medium they do. Why then, do you insist on not replying in kind? Have you stopped recycling, or is it just that those of us who returned happened to be the ones who took care of things like that? We really want to know.

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Don’t misunderstand us: life has gone on without you. We still go to work, shop for groceries and vote in elections. The weather continues to confound us regardless of what it is and we still catch ourselves in moments of regret or self-shame. Neighbours still argue, deliveries are missed and socks go missing in the laundry. Homelessness remains a problem and people still win big on the lottery. Arguments flare up between strangers because of traffic jams and we still call into talk radio shows in order to let off steam about the anger of strangers and our frustrations with traffic jams and the injustice of homelessness and the utter mystery of socks that simply cannot have gone anywhere at all and the missing of you and all it entails.

But there are parallels to your world. Because your leaving and the void that your absence has left means also that there is more space to move in and less air that demands to be shared. There are less cars to cause traffic jams and so less arguments with strangers about such things and now that we think about it, don’t we talk more about grief and love and philosophical matters on the talk shows more than the things that lead us to anger? (We have just conferred and agreed that the foregoing is true.) Homelessness has declined, although root causes such as untreated addiction and unsupported mental health continue to be a problem. But there are more homes available because of the space thing. And we just checked and there have been more lottery winners as a percentage of the population because of the same. So you see, we understand the value that you leaving us may have brought, but that doesn’t make us any happier. Socks continue to go missing though and deliveries are still missed, because some things are consistent and unchanging and we have made a note of the glass bottle thing and circulated a memo, but it’s a free world baby.

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Allow us to re-make this clear: we miss you. Your absence is noticed by us countless times each day. Although ask us about our concept of ‘day’ sometime. The voids you describe exist here too, but in reverse. Your shapes, and the spaces which you would occupy, are not here exactly, yet they remain unforgotten. Sometimes a shoal of fish will reconfigure itself into the shape of you, or a coral bloom will briefly resemble your faces, or the tragic spectacle of a whale fall will remind us of a moment when we were together and experienced a profound and sad understanding of what it might mean to lose you, although, to be honest, whale falls bum us out and so we try to avoid them.

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There is talk here of outlawing aquariums and criminalising the ownership of aquatic creatures. Painful reminders of you and not everyone is on board with this proposal, but to be honest, neither are we that bothered, because it might be easier. Who is going to object to not being allowed to own a goldfish or a terrapin? Maybe some people. We just don’t know. But don’t be surprised if you experience a sudden surge in the population of dog fish and eels and koi carp or whatever. We’ve been given assurances everything will be done with all due consideration to the creatures involved. Do you have an opinion on this? Some of us believe that you will and have accompanied this sentiment with a rolling of the eyes, although not all of us have done this. Actually, this move is not totally unexpected, as there has been a general taking against of anything remotely involving water. Swimming pools have fallen into disuse, beach holidays are no longer popular, the fishing industry has totally slumped. Your actions have not been without consequences and the irony that one such consequence might be a resurgence in the native aquatic populace is not lost on us. The notion of poetic justice is being circulated in some quarters although – again – not in all. But don’t try coming back in a hurry is all we might say.

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Do we have an opinion? Yes and no. But also just yes. Here is our response: bring it on. Render to the water that which belongs to the water. Some of us have always advocated this position and were objecting to zoos and wildlife parks long before we were waterside. Others have simply arrived at this position as a natural consequence of our circumstances. We forget, sometimes, how ignorant you are; how ignorant we used to be. The fact is we simply never understood what space meant in the context of the oceans. And the aquatic system exists in such perfect balance, and we adapted so quickly, there is little doubt that a turbot or a lamprey or an anglerfish would fare any worse. Fish have no ego for a start, although eels and terrapins we’re not clear on. Regardless: dump your natatory problems here if you wish, they will not be problems to us. But on that note, some of you are still using plastic bottles. Furthermore, we honestly thought the widescale disposal of toxins into the water would have ended when we returned. Seriously, you’re still doing that? The more generous-minded of us are attributing this to grief, or to your simply not realising and making the connection that all that sludge is going into our ecosystem. Which is now our home. How would you like it if we instigated the mass-dumping of our toxic wastes into your back yards and personal bedrooms and offices and other private places? Because the consensus is that you would not like this very much at all. Also? We don’t produce any toxic wastes and in case you’re wondering – yes – we believe this makes us better than you and would politely request that you be more considerate w/r/t your actions in respect of our home. Also: consider the freshwater fish.

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My oh my, but haven’t we become snippy little barnacles since slithering back into the aquamordial? Were you always like this? Because we have discussed the matter at length and can’t come to an agreement, although some of us feel like maybe you were and we’ve just forgotten; romanticised your presence in the wake of your absence. Loss will do that to a people. But we’re remembering. Slowly. Moving on, even, because it has to be done. The spaces which you used to occupy have become less defined and more nebulous. We stride with confidence now and are unafraid to bump into you, into where you were; increasingly appreciative of the gift that is your absence. The lack of you. We see now that your leaving was necessary. We are grateful for it and are beginning to observe events in a different light: of course things couldn’t have gone on the way they were. Something had to give and that something was you. You gave us space and for this we will love you forever, even as we forget you.
And we know about the freshwater thing, thanks.

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We can agree on one thing then: this is a parting. Once we figure out how to document things in the wetspace we might start with this. Not how we returned, or the way things were before, but now. The moment in which we formally separated. Which is always a beginning. We might even use those words, In the beginning, because we respect tradition, even in the midst of newness. Perhaps in the future there will be a desire to explore our history and where we came from; movements that value or fetishise a past that its participants never knew. Maybe we will even develop anti-bathyspheres to explore the dryspace, in the hope we would be welcomed as old friends and not old enemies. Whatever. We won’t ask you to speak for your descendants. But we hope. We hope. And we hope.