My first day and evening, I found a place to live where the houses were narrow and thin streets traversed but never descended directly. Long wooden stairways, their sea-grayed wood slick from mist and worn like stone, fell through skunk weed, fern, and salmonberry toward the docks and ocean below where fishing boats paused like apparitions, the small yellow floats in their netting the thousand eyes contained, rolled up, waiting. I stood before them that first night of my return, beyond sleep, and wondered at the spread of their nets, at the full transfiguration, the peacock eyes and fan sifting silently through half a mile of open ocean, drifting, seemingly, as grand and unplanned as jellyfish but more terrible, more calculating in their single purpose. This was overwrought, but it seemed in keeping with the indulgence of this trip, with the extravagance of an attempted return to childhood. The world had become, in brief moments, animated, and I its briefly unself-conscious observer. I walked among the purse seiners and trawlers, gillnetters and great tugs, down floating planks iridescent with fish scales and waved to the two or three fishermen in their lighted cabins who heard or otherwise sensed me and looked up from their odd hours, their strange, solitary lives, to nod and look down again.
What do You think about Legend Of A Suicide (2010)?
