He had an inexplicable contempt for men who did not hurl themselves into pools.
On the five o'clock bus ride home I stared out the window, past motley haggard faces reflecting flashes of sunset, at the bright orange trees whirring by, and thought about suburban swimming pools. If backyard pools are not the quintessence of America, I dont know what is. And as winter approaches the idea of poolside gin & tonic is all the more idyllic.
I thought about how every time Im in an airplane I watch the size of swimming pools either increase or decrease in size so as to gauge my distance above land. They're always the first thing I notice as the plane descends back toward the earth, and I thought about how I'd love to do an aerial photography series of backyard pools. Grill-outs, fondue-parties, skinny dipping, the whole nine yards. I thought about all those poolside movie scenes:
I thought about all those summers I spent by the pool.
These thoughts were inspired by "The Swimmer," a short story by John Cheever that I'd read on my break this afternoon. "It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, "I drank too much last night."' Yes. It's about a man who, one hot afternoon, decides to "swim" home by following a four mile route of backyard pools through suburbia. He names it River Lucinda, after his wife. And it begins as a playful endeavor, a parade of vitality, an affirmation of life -- because "The day was beautiful and it seemed to him that a long swim might enlarge and celebrate its beauty."
About halfway through his long swim he realizes he has set forth on this adventure without knowing why -- and now it's too late to turn back. "He had signed nothing, vowed nothing, pledged nothing, not even to himself. Why, believing as he did, that all human obduracy was susceptible to common sense, was he unable to turn back? Why was he determined to complete his journey even if it meant putting his life in danger? At what point had this prank, this joke, this piece of horseplay become serious?"
At the end he's tired and cold and arrives at an empty house. "He had done what he wanted, he had swum the county, but he was so stupefied with exhaustion that his triumph seemed vague." His fading resilience shows in his stroke, which degenerates from a buoyant chop chop to a bobbled sidestroke. There's even a change of seasons, as the day fades from sunny afternoon to a rainy, cool evening.
It was an appropriate thing for me to read. Sometimes I sense that I myself am The Swimmer: that Im young and adventurous and have set forth on this reckless voyage, moving forward and forward from pool to pool, drinking the things that people give me, headed nowhere except toward old age, and when I get there Ill be shocked because it's not what I expected to find. I expect something immense, and I like to think Im running toward it. But perhaps Im still just running -- or swimming -- away, away, infinitely away.
Perhaps the key is not in adventure, but in little daily triumphs.
Those that can't be rendered vague by exhaustion.
I dont know. Tonight I feel inconsolably alone.
I thought about how every time Im in an airplane I watch the size of swimming pools either increase or decrease in size so as to gauge my distance above land. They're always the first thing I notice as the plane descends back toward the earth, and I thought about how I'd love to do an aerial photography series of backyard pools. Grill-outs, fondue-parties, skinny dipping, the whole nine yards. I thought about all those poolside movie scenes:
I thought about all those summers I spent by the pool.
These thoughts were inspired by "The Swimmer," a short story by John Cheever that I'd read on my break this afternoon. "It was one of those midsummer Sundays when everyone sits around saying, "I drank too much last night."' Yes. It's about a man who, one hot afternoon, decides to "swim" home by following a four mile route of backyard pools through suburbia. He names it River Lucinda, after his wife. And it begins as a playful endeavor, a parade of vitality, an affirmation of life -- because "The day was beautiful and it seemed to him that a long swim might enlarge and celebrate its beauty."
About halfway through his long swim he realizes he has set forth on this adventure without knowing why -- and now it's too late to turn back. "He had signed nothing, vowed nothing, pledged nothing, not even to himself. Why, believing as he did, that all human obduracy was susceptible to common sense, was he unable to turn back? Why was he determined to complete his journey even if it meant putting his life in danger? At what point had this prank, this joke, this piece of horseplay become serious?"
At the end he's tired and cold and arrives at an empty house. "He had done what he wanted, he had swum the county, but he was so stupefied with exhaustion that his triumph seemed vague." His fading resilience shows in his stroke, which degenerates from a buoyant chop chop to a bobbled sidestroke. There's even a change of seasons, as the day fades from sunny afternoon to a rainy, cool evening.
It was an appropriate thing for me to read. Sometimes I sense that I myself am The Swimmer: that Im young and adventurous and have set forth on this reckless voyage, moving forward and forward from pool to pool, drinking the things that people give me, headed nowhere except toward old age, and when I get there Ill be shocked because it's not what I expected to find. I expect something immense, and I like to think Im running toward it. But perhaps Im still just running -- or swimming -- away, away, infinitely away.
Perhaps the key is not in adventure, but in little daily triumphs.
Those that can't be rendered vague by exhaustion.
I dont know. Tonight I feel inconsolably alone.