The Rock River Files (New for 2011!)

–Geology 101

My Bit of the River

In Cardiff I lived in a “young people's home” on the banks of the mouth of the River Taff. The “home” was a Victorian building situated on a corner plot; it was converted into five bedsits. All of the residents were between 16 and 18, except Don – he was the house warden. My bedsit was on the ground floor, front. My bed was in the bay of the bay window. On the other side of the river was an industrial estate. Everything over there was brown – brown warehouses, and brown factories, and flues with umber smoke billowing out of their rust-coloured smokestacks. I’d sit on my bed, tie back the nets, and watch the sepia panorama for hours. It was exciting to be so close to the brown monoliths and yet know – because of the river – they couldn’t get me. Every time it rained, I’d wish the river would burst its banks. It never did.

In London I lived on the banks of the Euston Road. I lived in Camden. The Euston Road became my river – it was just as wide and tidal as the Taff; it too, at times, seemingly ready to burst its banks. I traversed that river many times and yet, London couldn’t hold my attention like the monolithic monsters on the other side of the River Taff. Living in London was like living on the banks of a ghost river. You knew the river was there, but you could never quite seem to touch it; feel it.

And in New York State I found – set between three rivers – an overpopulated island that was so frenetic, in such a state of flux, every second seemed a new opportunity to start over. Manhattan was so big it made my demons seem small. I found peace there. Solitude. The footage of the Twin Towers collapsing always serves to remind me that New York is a waterfall – you must give yourself to it, because even when falling, it rises up. I’m not finished with those rivers yet.

At home, in Liverpool, from my penthouse roof terrace, I can see the estuary of the River Mersey. It’s an oblique view past the Colonnades (pictured) on the Albert Dock, but I can still witness the cargo ships schlepping up and down the river like old weathered miners going to and from a dark and unfathomable place. I call the bit of the river I can see from my apartment 'my bit' of the Mersey. I used to be able to see more, but the city rejuvenated itself and my vista changed with it. Sometimes I think if I ever lost 'my bit' of the river I would sell up and leave Liverpool, for good. But I’m not so sure…Liverpool is my anchor. You can be too free, you know.

So now I’m at this river – a different river. This river is younger, or rather, is further up stream than the others. I wonder where this river will take me? I wonder what this river will reveal to me? I wonder what I will learn on this river? I wonder if this river will break me…or save me? I wonder how many rivers I have left in me.

It’s not a deep river; I often wade through it. I play in it (with my dogs). In spring I will put my armbands on and swim in its quiet vitreous pools. My bit of the river is private, rocky, meandering, and complex. 

Sometimes I sit on the rocks, which themselves sit in the river, and I wonder do they – the boulders, the rocks, and the shale – know the river is slowly changing them. Softening their edges by degrees. Gradually eroding away their hardheartedness. Imperceptibly reducing the weight of their burden; the crosses they bare. Slowly freeing their souls. I hope so…

–Cheyelle Omar

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