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H2oh.

May 13, 2010

On the wall in my living room is a print of a map of the London underground. Running through the centre of it is the River Thames. Every time I bow into sun salutation, it catches my eye, ringing like a bell, triggering some sort of meaning in memory that, yesterday, I allowed to pull me in. This river runs through and around the first seven years of my life. Every time I would fly away from London, I would sit with my forehead pressed against the window, watching the river for as long as I could, until it was just a silver streak, until it was obscured by clouds. I think about Marlow sitting on his boat listening to the waves lap against the hull. I think about the brown muck that lines its edges. I think about the bones at the bottom. The river is a dark seam that runs through a city and a psyche alike. Later, I would move to Glasgow. The seam would become the River Clyde. The Clyde has a different feeling to it. More wild, less dark, colder. These rivers are just bodies of water, dirt and pollution, much like the blood in our veins is just a chemical mixture of hemoglobin and plasma and platelets. And yet they carry so much more than that. They carry the history of the societies that surround them, and all of the individuals who pay homage to that great spirit just by living in its presence. The river Clyde. The river Thames. The pulse of a city. The pulse of a nation. The pulse.

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