To Noah, with love, always …
Life is passing by – fast and furious, like a torrent fed by the eternal snows of the Kilimanjaro.
I feel like a fish in the river. Fighting the surge … carried by the current towards the deep dark blue of pelagic eternity.
I love the water on my skin. I love the first bite of the cold. I love feeling alive. I love feeling the evolution of life carried in my genes. The fish bones in my spine. The lungs of cetacean cousins in my chest. I love the meditation of the swim … the slow crawl of ideas propelled by the torsion of my muscle in this long and continuous rhythmic dance.
I love diving alone. I love the solitude of the reef.
Does the river even know of my existence? What trace does a fish leave behind in the water? An undulation … a shadow … a spark … a few ripples … there a moment and gone with the flow … Nothing much really I am thinking – even the big fishes with their big wings … just a few ripples ….
The river will run for ever – without memories – fresh every day, always fast and furious.
I have a rather sad nostalgic nature … « nostalgique et désabusé » as Jane B. would say. I have a poor memory and yet I remember so well what is important in life and in people.
I found some old photographs. In one of them I am the same ages as Noah … maybe a few months older, at most. I look like a fish jumping out of water. Out of the blue. « La Grande Bleue » as they call it in the south of France. I remember it well. I still feel the freedom of the flight and the embrace of the sea.
Fathers look at their sons. They look for traces, for shadows, sparks and ripples. I see some of my instinctive undulations in his smiles.
I think that he loves the water as well. Not cold like the streams of the Kilimanjaro. He has his mother’s African blood – closer to Matobo or the Okavango delta.
Fathers look at their sons. They see life gushing by. They see their genes passing by … blue, like water on pebbles.
When I was Noah’s age, fourteen or fifteen at most, I went to Brussels and bought two pairs of blue jeans with my pocket money. The real Levi Strauss 550 – 31-32 – from Frisco. My favorite jeans. I wore them for ten years at least … until the 31 no longer fit. Later, in my years of 32’s and 33’s, I thought with nostalgia of these first jeans … and with foolish hope never gave them up.
Now, forty years later, I passed them to my son … with the hope that one day, in another thirty or forty years, these jeans will be passed to his son.
Life is passing by – fast and furious – and blue are the genes passing with the flow …