What is that? The odd, maybe twisted pleasure of leaving people behind

There you are, on that boat. There they stand, on the dock. They stand there on the planks and nails, and the beams that bear their weight sink deep into the unmoving earth.

They stand on the dock. They are at the edge of the water. They can only turn. They can only go back. As they return back to their lives, they can’t fathom the dock; they don’t even try. They must return to the roundness, to the wholeness of the land. The concept of the frontier is too large, too unpackageable to even be addressed. The frontier doesn’t even have an address. It is beyond. Beyond what? That is the use of the people on the dock. They define the frontier. The point where they collectively stop, that is the frontier. Because some people stop on the dock, the boundary exists. That dock at the edge of the cold, dark water becomes so big. The big, scary frontier that repels them back toward the wholeness of their lives.

So why did they come? Was it to squeeze your hand or kiss your mouth with convincing passion? No, they came to see if you would really get on the boat. That Martian vessel departing the wholeness and the roundness. To where? Wrong preposition! It doesn’t matter to where. The boat is an uncatchable beam of light, tangenting off of the roundwhole. It is bouncing, flying, fleeing mothers and moorings. The shadow it casts doesn’t even touch the dock. The tethers fall away and the "bon voyages" ebb as thunderous waters make way for brave tangent.

But what of you? I haven’t forgotten. You can forget forgetting. Forgetting is what happens when you try to remember. You are past all that. You have put down your cup of Kool-aid. It wasn’t too bad: it was pleasant and safe and even tasted pretty good. Too syrupy-sweet though. It is time for a hearty swig of cold, briny seawater. Now that is a substance of clarity. It stings going down and it is complicated. It is liberating and revolting. Saltwater requires sharp focus; Kool-aid requires quiet concession. Kool-aid you left behind. You’re drinking seawater now. And after the first, hesitant cupful, you start gulping it down. There’s no label indicating its safety, but its salty sting doesn’t make you seize or vomit, no limbs fall off and your pores don’t leak essential fluids. Instead, the world flows into you. You are filled with its thereness. It shakes you and makes your eyes well up. The scrutinizing wind bites chunks out of who you were. It whips you like a lash, then fills your lungs – Straboccante! – with the food for which they yearn.

You crossed the frontier when you stepped foot on that boat. And however cold and brackish and biting the beyond is, it welcomes you.

Now go to it.