Underwater

I have now been on my island paradise one full day and yet, I know it will take more time to fully shake the agitations of Saigon, all of which I packed and brought with me. Like a glass turned upside-down on a table, inside of which, held prisoner, are a multitude of insects, buzzing and knocking themselves against the glass walls, this glass, though now upturned, needs time for the chaotic contents to disperse, to fly away; to be still and clear. The acumulated agitation of living amongst the chaos of Saigon buries itself deep within: an incessant underlying tic, like a clock, but refusing regularity: random ticks and infuriatingly irregular tocks.

But, of course, there is no real awareness of this, just a constant buzzing, a lack of clearheadedness and a quickness to anger and frustration; other signs too, such as being disturbed by the listness nature of the sea, its incessant lapping, like the wind blowing long hair across ones face. Why can't it be still?

The bathroom in my hotel, slightly sunken so that you step down into it, is covered in large square tiles of deep aqua, lighter in shade the closer they rise to the surface; cool blue-green crisscrossed in a refreshing orderliness with white lines, chrome, white, black and aqua, all gleaming and sparkling like a brand new car, like the sparkling sunlit sea. Stepping into the bathroom is like stepping into my own private sunlit ocean, an ocean frozen still in time, deep but pleasantly illuminated. It is the sea but without its incessant lapping, without its restlessness. I close the door and I am submerged in the cool silent stillness of an oceanic sanctuary. It is as though I am buried deep underground. Words like lagoon, cavern, grotto enter the room , my sole companions, not swimming like fish, more sinking, unobtrusive objects, entirely at home, words that are just heavy enough to fall slowly beneath the surface, joining me in its depths.

I am tempted to just stay in there for hours, but I guess I should be outside more. I'm just not quite ready for all of this movement. Even the ruffling of the pages of a book in the wind disturbs me. I guess this is what they call "being on edge". Virginia Woolf, in the grip of her first breakdown, heard the birds tweeting in Ancient Greek, or so I read. Perhaps, this is what I am experiencing, for, everyone around me seems to be speaking in Swedish, great hulking things, at least six feet high, all of them, with large bottoms and even larger breasts, red like lobsters, all speaking a strange Swedic tongue. What are all of these things they have to say? And why now?