First proper thunderstorm of the season in New York City. A crack of thunder rattled the windows and its violence reminded me of a cruise with the in-laws a few years ago, back when cruises were foolish but not suicidal. We were on a ship heading towards Alaska with extended family from Taiwan, Florida, California, and all points between, a rare reunion to celebrate an uncle’s golden wedding anniversary.
Hunks of ice drifted past the ship. Green cliffs rose into the mist. A woman yawned and said she was going back to the casino. That’s when I understood why people jump from cruise ships. When there’s nowhere to go except spaces for pleasure-seeking, spiritual decay begins to take root.
C. and I wandered the ship until we found a vacant lounge that played haunted ballroom music between bingo sessions. We made a list of the things we wanted to do in the future, grand plans for public art projects that now seem ludicrous in these days of social distancing.
I often dream about the North. The sea and bright wind, the promise of some final reckoning with white lights, and everything swept clean.
I remember the sound of white thunder, that bone-shuddering crack as another piece of a glacier fell into the sea. Most of all, I remember the sound of so many voices cheering and our cameras clicking, as if we were applauding the result of our terrible way of life.
Gas – Zauberberg
Zauberberg | Kompakt, 1997 | Bandcamp
Perfect glacier music from Wolfgang Voigt’s exercise in the techno sublime.
