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Tales from the Other Side of Language 63 the cliffs of this city and my life here. It is not courage. It’s like the surgery, no choice. Choose life. Choose to protect my body. I am flowing west in a perplexing mix of joy and sorrow. The journey feels shrouded as I step onto the airplane; I don’t know what I will find.
64 Ruth Codier Resch Without Utterance: I’m in a culture shock I don’t expect. My body is conditioned to hunker down to urban sensations: tight spaces, canyons of buildings, and stimulating streets. Here in the Pacific Northwest my body is assailed by the expansiveness of the space: broad valleys, chains of mountains, wide skies, and quieter towns. My body feels small, unbalanced in this scale. Rhododendrons grow lush and rampant, unlike the delicate laurel, its relative in the East. Fir trees soar higher than I’ve ever seen. The mystical and the magical seem alive in this landscape: rocks, trees, birds flying across the sky. Its palpable magic whispers to me of the older indigenous culture suffusing the air and earth. The place feels like Greece, where my daughter and I traveled to celebrate her graduation from college. There the land and the sky seemed stark and portentous, mythic in scope. We walked in the cave of the god Zeus, saw ruins of temples in ordinary backyards. I stood on a stone rampart one afternoon and felt like Odysseus reading portents in the hawk silhouette that rode high into the pallid sky. I noticed a bird skating off a ledge below me, and it felt fraught with meaning. Now here in the Pacific Northwest the land speaks in softer tones, more nuanced voices than Greece. But as there, I listen and watch. I’ve found an apartment in a little harbor town on Puget Sound. I can see a brilliant slice of the glacial top of Mt. Rainier from its balcony. Down the hill three blocks, I sit after work with my feet up on a wooden porch railing behind a restaurant and watch the harbor traffic. Sailboats, working boats, rowboats ply from one side to the other, in and out of the harbor, reminding me of summer vacations in Maine. There as here, I glimpse the social mores of small town life. It is high summer, late afternoon, and the slanting, glistening light brings everything into sharp relief. I am not on vacation. I turn a bedroom into my first art studio here in this apartment—unheard
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We must be willing to give up the l
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Weeds, ink dr
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PART ONE: THE PRECIPITOUS ABYSS
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Tales from the Other Side of Langua
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house as sentient. Tales from the O
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is now. Tales from the Other Side o
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lives around him in deep and import
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“Without Utterance is a testimoni
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