The International Writers Magazine: First Chapters: Non-Fiction
Ghost
Continents: Stories of Maps & Legends
Jessica Schneider
The
Myth and the Mountain -
The Peaks and Valleys of a Man-Made Map
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Both our tones
flow from the older fountain, the poet Robinson Jeffers said,
at the end of his poem, Continents End. And so this is what I
am left with: the image of the continent, and all it contains, and feet
pressing upon it, a solid earth all its own, only to arrive at its own
end- the ocean. And it is this ocean that is large enough to be called
a body- a collective term implying something that is both large and
vast, yet also containing its own systems. Large and vast, is the ocean
when set beside this continent, yet equal in viability to that of land.
As a child, Id wonder, then- what holds the land up from sea,
preventing it from faltering below its bed, holding it up despite torrents
and rain pounding at the rocky edges of all this continent contains?
On the dresser holds a sample of the earth- it is a round glimpse of
everything I will ever see at once when thinking of the earth and all
that fills it- and even then, I am only able to see one side at a time.
Perhaps this is what it feels like to be the sun? This question breezes
through, and instead I run my fingers upon the globe. They find South
America and brush the tips of the Andes- slightly pointed upward and
visible, this is a place where planes have crashed against snow. And
now those unmoving parts are buried there, under something and some
reason Ill never understand. I travel upward and find the Rockies
in North America. These mountains feel the same. Glazing over Texas,
the globe is smooth and flat. But in Colorado it is not. Turning over,
spinning on its side, the globe skips twelve hours of light, if I pretend
that my face is the sun. And so the opposite side shows me blue- a few
islands and lagoons, but this is blue, The Great Pacific- the thing
on maps that hoards the most space, invading the continental browns
with its many miles of condensation and salt.
But what is it that allows the continents to float? Are they really
lighter than water, leftover grains of granite and eroded planes, tired
of being pushed apart by drift theories and rain? It is easy to measure
the movement of water, and the movement of species crawling out of the
sea, but
the land? What we are left with are pieces that seemingly
fit in one large clump, calling it Pangaea. But had the pieces not drifted,
and decided to remain the same- Pangaea pressed in hardness, what creatures
would have competed with the migration of birds to locate sanded shores-
those spaces where the ground goes seemingly soft? Here is where the
ocean and land enter to form compromise- a beach settling the rolling
over of waves upon eroded pebbles and grit, and the gift of jellyfish
and loose kelp to fill the fever of each sandy grain. My feet find them,
and the coarseness of shells, where below the kelp, small crabs loosen
and startle.
It is easy to imagine rain finding a place, falling from an atmosphere
the globe cannot represent, for it is clear and candid, and contains
in every drop an ocean all its own, waiting to find land to invade-
be it a grain of seed, soil or drift of sand. A single drop is enough
to trap an ant within the crevice of some sidewalk, or even hydrate
a solitary strand of grass, poking through with green life. Sifting
my fingers over the mountains yet again, this time they find themselves
in Europe, coaxing these bumps where the atmosphere is supposedly thinner
and more wearing upon the lungs, filling them with stingy levels of
oxygen and clouds that are just too heavy. And certainly the climber
finds thistaxing- dredging upward at 14,000 feet above sea level, he
is one with the drive to find what patterns dwell at the top. It is
the same patters that live in the abysmal zones, and the steep craters
of some far off moon that welcomes life. It is the same patters that
exist in the bowels of some Utah canyon, hardened by age and the firmament
of passings. They are the endless boundaries that are endless not because
they are infinite boundaries, but because they are composed of infinite
patterns found everywhere and in everything, making them all that of
everywhere and everything.
In the mountain, one can find patterns, but not answers to those patterns.
The climber fills his sack, and pulls upward with rope, using a small
chisel shaped like an ax to passage through snow. His feet find a stone
to use for a step, and so he pulls- for hours of ecstasy, till his eyes
can no longer find his starting point. Brushed by cloud, he has disappeared
from those who matter, and those who dont. They have all fallen
away, a long way, and are no longer with him in his travails to witness
what lives at the top. Although he hasnt totally forgotten them,
for the moment he has, realizing that they no longer exist, and never
have existed anywhere among such elevation.
I am back, and have returned to the globe. My fingertips find the same
spots this climber has, although my efforts in reaching them are a lot
simpler than his. Somewhere in a globe this person exists, infinitely
climbing each peak that only feel like bumps to me. But my fingers are
kind, and dont press down. Who knew the world could be kept in
such small a place, as that upon a desk or shelf? This is the myth I
crawl out of: the canyon, the sea, realizing now that size doesnt
matter. I want to find this place for patterns, composing all around
me- the spaces they live no matter how small or vast or far, they live
to live- to hold up life the way land is held in the cradled body of
the sea.
To know more about maps go to Cosmoetica
© Jessica Schneider - March 2005 - www.Cosmoetica.com
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