Voice of the Fish Read online

  VOICE OF THE FISH

  VOICE OF THE FISH

  A Lyric Essay

  Lars Horn

  Graywolf Press

  Copyright © 2022 by Lars Horn

  The author and Graywolf Press have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify Graywolf Press at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This publication is made possible, in part, by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund. Significant support has also been provided by the National Endowment for the Arts, the McKnight Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, the Amazon Literary Partnership, and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. To these organizations and individuals we offer our heartfelt thanks.

  Published by Graywolf Press

  212 Third Avenue North, Suite 485

  Minneapolis, Minnesota 55401

  This is a work of nonfiction. It is also a work of memory and craft. On occasion, names, places, and events have been altered in the interest of personal privacy and artistic intent.

  All rights reserved.

  www.graywolfpress.org

  Published in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-64445-089-5 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-64445-177-9 (ebook)

  2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1

  First Graywolf Printing, 2022

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021945923

  Cover design: Kapo Ng

  Cover art: Shutterstock

  For my mother and father,

  Sheridan Horn and David Horn

  For my wife, Jaquira Díaz

  I mean river as a verb. A happening. It is moving within me right now.

  ~

  This is not juxtaposition. Body and water are not two unlike things—they are more than close together or side by side. They are same—body, being, energy, prayer, current, motion, medicine.

  The body is beyond six senses. Is sensual. An ecstatic state of energy, always on the verge of praying, or entering any river of movement.

  Energy is a moving river moving my moving body.

  —Natalie Diaz, “The First Water Is the Body”

  Contents

  In Water Disjointed from Me

  Last Night, a Pike Swam up the Stairs

  That Day the Haddock

  My Mother Photographs Me in a Bath of Dead Squid

  As for the Tilapia

  Last Night, a Doctor Handed Me a Glass of Water

  The Conviction of Things Not Seen

  Under the Fishes

  And the Fish in the River Shall Die

  The Georgian Military Road

  Last Night, Sturgeon Swam the Streets

  Speaking Reliquary

  What Manner of Land

  Judgement Run Down as Waters

  With the Moths’ Eyes

  Last Night, the Sea Spat My Body

  Ink

  Anything That Makes a Mark, Anything That Takes a Mark

  And the Lord Spake unto the Fish

  Last Night, the Moon Flooded the Bedclothes

  Tongue Stones

  I Am Poured Out Like Water

  Last Night, Eels Crashed from the Faucet

  Notes

  On June 23, 1626, a fishmonger of Cambridge market discovered a century-old manuscript in the belly of a codfish. Half-dissolved and wrapped in sailcloth, the sextodecimo fell into the hands of Dr. Mede of Christ’s College, Cambridge, who happened to be walking through the market that day. Vox piscis or The Book-Fish, as the manuscript became known, was published a year later and contained several theological treatises: The preparation to the Crosse and to death; A mirrour, or, glasse, to know thy selfe; A briefe instruction, to teach a person willingly to die, and not to feare death; The treasure of knowledge.

  The texts were attributed to the Protestant reformer John Frith, who, during his lifetime, spent months imprisoned in the belly of an Oxford fish cellar on charges of heresy. Sentenced to death on June 23, 1533, Frith was burnt at the stake in Smithfield, London—upwards of 250 nautical miles from King’s Lynn, where the codfish was finally landed ninety-three years later.

  VOICE OF THE FISH

  In Water Disjointed from Me

  In childhood photographs, I blur within a bath of dead squid, sleep atop hot concrete, severed magpie wings splayed across my back. My mother always distrusted conventional family portraits and, along with mirrors and weighing scales, banned them from the house. The body was movement, volume, was rhythm through space. The body was not to be looked at. Except when that looking made it strange. When the stilling of a body undid it. Lent an enduring instability.

  I experience my body as interiority that radiates. Mirrors unnerve me. I don’t know my weight. I don’t tend to look at myself. I like gestures. Words come least naturally to me—I tend to think in images, textures.

  In the summer of 2014, I tore the muscles from my right shoulder to my lower back while weightlifting. After two months, the injury hadn’t healed. Not even begun to. As it turned out, I would spend the next six months bedbound, medicated, unable to wash or dress myself. Doctors would fail to explain the lack of progress, and I, having exhausted the list of hospital units, would return to bed, watch flickering images on an old television set. Around the same time, I lost the ability to speak, read, or write. At first, I stuttered; later, I remained silent. As for reading, I could manage a line, but any more and I felt nauseous. I still can’t fully explain this loss of language, why my body caved—exhaustion, depression, the sheer physical pain. But living for six months in a body that wouldn’t adhere to words, that balked at sentences, made me aware of the body as texture. As image and gesture. Rhythm. As varying weight.

  After those months of illness, I wanted to write differently, wanted language and narrative to carry more physicality. Come as the thud of soil burying a face. Plummet—a bird petrifying as it enters a lake. To adhere to a visual or gestural logic. Less “worded,” more photographic. More movement.

  I quit academia, research, a translation career. I started over.

  I have always found pronouns to be slippery, distant things. At school, I wrote and talked about myself in the third person masculine. My teacher expressed concern. My mother, thank Christ, replied: “So, the kid’s fucking weird. They all are. Give it time.”

  I remember the evening my mother knelt down, sighed: “Lars, my love, you’ve got to start writing ‘I’ for homework.” I stood there—crew cut, boys’ clothing, boys’ toys, a boys’ bike. And my mother in front of me—men’s shirt, men’s boots, a woman who, in her own words, was never meant to be a mother, because she was queer. A woman who decided not to abort when she fell pregnant by the man she was about to divorce for a woman; who, when she phoned the UK Lesbian and Gay Helpline in 1988, was told that if she mentioned her sexuality as a motive for divorce, she would lose child custody, her teaching job, would remain unemployable. This woman, who has lived in the closet her whole life, from family, friends—from me until I was eleven—she looked at me, not saying anything, both of us just looking at one another. Even then, I didn’t like the direction in which this was going.

  I came home that week with a writing assignment: What I Did This Weekend. I remember how the sentences clotted, disintegrated every time I thought them. How I broke them before they hit paper: He buried a cat.—I, I buried a cat.

  I learnt to use this “I”—to speak and write and do as if my body somehow reverberated within this sound. But I have never fel
t comfortable with an “I,” or in bringing any concept of “me” as a self to language. I find silence and physicality come more naturally. And distance. To feel oneself as “over there,” as nebulous. Within and without.

  Nonbinary, transmasculine—my gender exists, for the most part, as unseen, unworded, unintelligible. It is instead reduced to the gender I was assigned at birth, as if any counter to this will always be less “real.” Somehow, gender requires corporeal inscription to be accepted. I regularly find myself trying to explain my gender in terms that will make it intelligible to another. Yet despite trying to explain how pronouns still carry somewhere in water disjointed from me. How I sense myself as movement. As lake or late-night radio. As a thing that feels weighted, finds it hard to rise, break surface. Eventually, these attempts return crudely to bodily specifics, usually of erogenous zones.

  What might gender look like written beyond the blurring of a male-female binary? The body expanded beyond its periphery—animal, vegetable, mineral. Textural. Gestural. The body—hard and soft, a thing to be warmed or cooled, wrapped in cloth.

  During the months I was ill, I kept trying to read: a new book, a short book, chapter, story, a poem, books that I’d read before, books whose openings I knew by heart—all this accompanied by exhaustion, vertigo, nausea. I would lie still after that. Numb. The body drawing blank after blank, static thoughts greying over bedsheets.

  I remember the first book I read about a year later. I read it slowly, a paragraph at a time. It was Oscar Moore’s PWA. A collection of Moore’s newspaper columns written as he was living with AIDS. Everything about that book lifted this body. Its gentleness, its humour. Its generosity.

  Since falling ill, I believe writing to be a vital act. All the more so when it comes from bodies so often marginalised or written over. I look to writing—urgent, unusual writing—as an art that can make someone feel seen, feel relevant. For a moment, writing can prove wide enough for another to stand within. Breathe out.

  Literature alters the texture of things—how we are, or do, or see. I write with the hope that, for someone somewhere, these words might prove a salve. Might rinse the eyes, warm the chest. Ultimately, though, I hope these words might bring someone, whoever they are, back to themself—differently.

  Last Night, a Pike Swam up the Stairs

  Perch circled the skirting boards.

  Sticklebacks twitched at the foot of the bed.

  As a child, I believed my body thrummed with fishes. I drew pictures: the body aqueous—ovular, amorphous—walled by cartilage, algae, silt. Eels coiled in the stomach. Anemones pulsed in the gut. And always a pike—lone, muscular—writhed up the throat.

  When I matured physically and my body began not to fit, I always wondered whether it had nothing to do with biology or hormones. Whether it was because the fishes had stayed or left.

  “There is also the pike. These, as Aristotle reports, are a solitary and carnivorous fish; and they have a bony tongue, adhering to the mouth, and a triangular heart…. In shrewdness he is superior to other fish, being very ingenious at devising means to save himself; on which account, Aristophanes the comic poet says— “The pike, the wisest of all fish that swim.

  “And … Archestratus says—

  “Take the large cestris cephalus from Gæson,

  When you do come to fair Miletus’ city.

  Take too the pike, the offspring of the gods.”

  —Athenaeus of Naucratis, The Deipnosophists, or Banquet of the Learned of Athenaeus

  To be captivated by violence—pulsing blue light. To stand transfixed, face pressed to eight-inch acrylic. My mother gave me her love of water, of scaled, fronded life. My mother gave me her strange love of aquariums—an attraction, a repulsion. The same fraught interest that led her to photograph me again and again before fish tanks, my body growing, morphing to the slip of manta rays, ribbon eels, sharks. All of us captured, spectator and spectacle shimmering across the glass. Their bodies long dead by now, mine still shifting, propelling slowly through the days, sloughing itself. But, momentarily, all of us—caught in light and gelatin, still together as we fade from chromogenic paper.

  In one series taken with a timer, I glance at a penguin cresting towards me in the tank. Three shots: the penguin ever better in view, and me—four years old, ever more twisted, the camera lens abandoned, looking only at the penguin. Only wanting that: to look, not to be looked at.

  Florida, USA, 1996: Docks. A tugboat—sky blue, sponges strung between cabin and mast. Heat banding off the boardwalk, the water, off pelicans’ outstretched wings. My mother hurried me to a nearby building. Once used to store engines and nets, the hangar had been swept clean. Hand-painted signs littered the entrance: SHARK FISHING, FULL DAY EXCURSION—CATCH GUARANTEED! Shade swelled over my feet. I walked forward, blinked. An air pump whirred. My mother removed her sunglasses: “There, look at that.” A cylindrical tank towered in the midst of the darkness. I stepped closer, my skin humming aquamarine. A sand tiger shark circled the glass. Its shadow glided over my mother’s eyes, lips, neck. My mother picked up her Nikon, lifted me onto the tank ledge: “Face me, Lars. That’s it. Now wait. I missed it. Stay there. Keep looking at the camera. No, ignore that. It doesn’t matter what they think. Wait. It’s too dark. Okay, hold still, the shark’s coming back.” The searing white of a camera flash—once, twice, three times. On our way out, I overheard a staff member say, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He leapt in the tank and ate Bobby, a few of the smaller fish too.” “Leapt?”

  “Clean leapt out and back down into the tank.”

  I read the sign: NO FLASH!

  In the photograph, I wear navy shorts, my chest is bare, my hair midlength, sun-bleached. I glow. Bluish-green. Androgynous. A body that hesitates: male, female, something else, something more, perhaps. Inches behind me, the sand tiger shark skims the wall of the tank—snout, gills, dorsal and caudal fins—seven feet and two hundred pounds of muscle, fat, of sandpaper skin.

  I remember that childhood holiday to Florida as a rush of heat and colour, as skittering geckos and soaring pelicans. It is strange to think of myself then, a child caught in the neon and fiberglass of Florida’s tourist docks, spray exploding over the boardwalk. To think of myself caught in the sticky heat, palms chittering, in a place more vivid than anywhere I’d ever been. I couldn’t know that I’d return decades later. That I’d live there, drive hot metal through grinding traffic, egrets fluttering through sirens, shouts. That, some twenty years after our holiday in Florida, after I’d grown, attended universities, acquired and lost jobs, made and lost friends, this photo of me and the shark would resurface—fall from the pages of a book. My mother would text me a copy. And this image—photograph of a photograph, colours filmy—would find its way back to me, slap up through the years like bleached plastic, brine-streaked and tangled in kelp.

  Written in the third century AD, Athenaeus of Naucratis’s The Deipnosophists or Dinner-Table Philosophers is a fifteen-volume work of fictional banquet conversations supposedly held between esteemed philosophers, physicians, grammarians, lexicographers, jurists, and musicians—themselves either fictional or long dead. The work references some 700 earlier Greek writers and 2,500 texts. Considered the world’s oldest cookbook, whilst also renowned for its clear portrait of homosexuality in late Hellenism, the book’s subject matter ranges from “Lentils” to “Spare Livers,” from the “Use of Silver Plate” to the “Misconduct of Fishermen.” And in this same work— indeed, where else?—one finds mention of a ship built by Archimedes for the tyrant Hiero II, a ship of gargantuan proportions whose floors depicted the Iliad in mosaic, whose hull held a gymnasium, variegated marble baths, gardens, horses, and, crucially, a fish well of vast proportion.

  “There was also a cistern near the head of the ship, carefully shut, and containing two thousand measures of water, made of beams closely compacted with pitch and canvass. And next to the cistern there was a large Water-tight well for fish, made so with beam
s of wood and lead. And it was kept full of sea-water, and great numbers of fish were kept in it.” —Athenaeus of Naucratis, The Deipnosophists, or Banquet of the Learned of Athenaeus

  For almost two millennia, this early form of fish tank seemed as mythic as Hiero II’s watercraft. But, between 1958 and 1959, construction workers excavating grounds for the Leonardo da Vinci airport in Fiumicino, Italy, unearthed the remains of several ancient vessels. Far from the planes expected to roar over that land—snarls of metal, petrol, and plastic hurtling above the earth—the workers found crafts fated not to air but to water. Discovered on the former site of a harbour basin—a building project undertaken by Emperor Claudius in AD 42—entire hulls of Roman cargo ships groaned from the sludge. Ships that would once have carried 7,500 sacks of grain, some 3,000 jars of wine or oil. One set of ruins stood out. Referred to as “Fiumicino 5,” they belonged to a fishing boat complete with navis vivaria or “live tank.” Constructed from wooden planks coated in lead, the tank would have held seawater and live fish, thus facilitating the transportation of catch to market. Confirmer of myth recovered by accident, the ancient tank is the sole example in existence from Roman times.

  When the photograph of myself in Florida made its way back to me, I couldn’t help but look at it. I made it the background on my phone. Eating alone at a roadside diner, I pressed the home button, looked again for the brief seconds of a timed bulb: a shark and a seven-year-old flared into darkness, surfaced from a waterlogged night.

  This photograph is more complicated than those where I am three or four. My expression—not quite fear, more wariness, distrust. As if, somehow, in just seven years of living, I realised I wasn’t quite what this world wanted. At least, not what people wanted; animals, plants—they didn’t care. My mother also didn’t give a damn. She let me wear boys’ underwear, boys’ clothes, play with boys’ toys. She never curtailed how I navigated this body or its place in the world. But I did not fit. And, on some level, I seemed aware of it. TV, books, films—no one else came jarring in their own skin. At school, none of the girls swam in trunks, threw off their T-shirt in hot weather to play football. No one blunted towards different limbs.