Fish Story

About two weeks ago, I spent the weekend with my brother and sister-in-law in San Antonio, where my brother Jack, production manager for the local PBS station, is working on a documentary about the Riverwalk extension. Between he and my sister-in-law, a local library administrator, I got an insider's tour, full of history and some facts that only local residents would be aware of.


It was dusk in the King William District when walked down to the dark- green river. I made several pictures of bridges and sent them to my cell phone buddies. The humidity-haze that nearly kissed the banks of the river, broken by low ground lights, created a romantic setting, like one might see in a Hollywood version of a Jayne Eyre movie. Except this was Texas.

After walking through lovely old neighborhoods, filled with gated and walled Victorian homes, into a part of the downtown hotel district, we drove to a recently installed art exhibit, comprised of seven-foot long fish, hanging under the I-35 bridge. The fish are suspended a few feet below the bridge, in such a way that they move back and forth as the bridge sways, at once responding to the movement of overhead traffic, and fish in the river below. Here's a picture my brother took at night, when the fish were illuminated.

Now that we're talking about fish, here's my favorite Marianne Moore poem.

The Fish

wade

through black jade
the crow-blue muscle-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself like

an

injured fan.
The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there, for submerged shafts of the

sun,
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices------
in and out, illuminating

the
turquoise sea
of bodies. The water drives a wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff; whereupon the stars,

pink
rice-grains, ink . . .
bespattered jellyfish, crabs like green
lillies and submarine
toadstools, slide each on the other.

All
external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice-------
all the physical features of

ac-
cident, lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm-side is

Dead,
Repeated
Evidence has proved that it can live
on what cannot revive
its youth.
The sea grows old in it.

Sorry for the bad formatting--anyone who's read this work knows the lines should be staggered. Anyway, along with its spot-on imagery (Moore was a biologist), reading the poem aloud should give you the experience of movement. I like it paired with the photograph.

But, we're neither fishing for poetry here nor swimming, so let's move along. The next day, my sister-in-law, Natalie, and I went on an eleven kilometer Volksmarch that circled the Riverwalk, and I can't imagine we missed any section. Descending the stone-covered stairs, we entered an engineered, walled, bejeweled community below-street-level. At the bottom of the stairs, I felt like I was crossing a line in time and space, entering a place which was very different from the world overhead. Of course it's intended to evoke that feeling, so tourists will relax, have fun and spend money. Although a little contrived, it was stunningly pretty, with flower-filled alcoves, hand-carved benches, rock covered stairs leading to imagined locations, lovely hotels with balconies, vine-covered edifices, statues, arts malls, and restaurants with margarita-sipping customers, who glowed as they sat mist sprayers. Then, there was a lovely outdoor theater, with a grass-covered seating area.

But, it was hot. Very hot. Humid and hot.
I wanted to throw myself into the river and swim back to the finish line. Would I be able to make it without taking the plunge?

Natalie and I carried bottles of water and, at one point, I resorted to pouring mine down my back, just to get a little cooler. (And, to get wet!) Finally, we stopped to sit on a tiled concrete bench that seemed to grow out of the sidewalk. I took this picture of Natalie--doesn't she have an aqualine look about her?


Guess I'm writing (or swimming) in circles here, so will end this story by invoking the philosophical (rhetorical) point: A fish doesn't know it lives in water until it's thrown onto the beach.

Back stroke.