Aquatic Love Song

It was only a few bucks for entry, and though I never pre-emptively check ticket prices I’m always a little relieved when it sits snugly along the purchase of a Snickers, Cheez-Its — these small walks and visits are my snacks for the day, after all. I rarely eat anything anymore.

The distance between the ticket booth and Official Entrance gave enough pause to compare other aquarium pilgrimages. I know if I pulled out my photos app I could look at the evidence and consistently and readily remain dazzled by the prior cyan reverb. Roaming an artificial cave to suggest, perhaps, the fish were always there and we’re only scaffolding out some comfort by the path. The glass was pressurized through a thousand years: sandstone nearby as confirmation.

Thus came into view a crystal-shaped dome, glass and beach right ahead, infinity ponds on either end, and I wasn’t particularly too interested. All that matter was past the sliding doors: the escalator and attendant waiting, gesturing another dip before enveloped in cyan once more. Perhaps the dark corridors, or the underground timelessness, is what could elevate it into something more than, to PETA, a prison.

I don’t need your crystal entrance nor pleasant views; believe me, I know how to dress up my own love songs no matter the venue. Because that’s the game half the time, isn’t it? However sickly the tuna looks, scars of belly, I could adorn some personality, some extensive imagination to endure the semi-solitary confinement, and perhaps as they look at all the strange bipeds gawking so they turn into tuna and swim along. Do I wonder how I’d feel, having children tapping my glass and photo flash? Sometimes, but I guess the justification of any pescetarian is how fish are less conscious than the cow; I’m not sure how they work past the sea-faring parasites though. Flukes about!

Nevertheless I began to imagine that maybe the next corridor would extend into the ocean, wrapped up by a coral reef, and how lively each fin paddles about. Turn around to meet however many eyes in the deep staring back. Maybe the fish would tap the glass toward us, if they wanted. This is where the treatise would be signed.

I’ll continue my love song, no matter how many actors want to tear it apart and let me know the embedded cruelty. And even if I could plead, it’s not me, they’ll point at my ticket as affirmation to my complicity. But I’ll continue to get lost in the flush palette of reflective scales, max saturation and shuffle along those with the 10k cameras hoping to get the glitter by the crowd-driven strobe light behind us. I’ll look away my baggy eyes and bony cheeks if it ever mirrors in the exhibit: hurriedly I’ll trot to the penguins and argue they’re so much more lax here. How they chortle! No risk of seal-devouring.

Indeed, I would grab each PETA hand and take a safari, toward the corpses Nature still demands without our intervention. Let their shoulders sag a little, and reflect upon the swarm of mosquitoes to horse flies nestled in each exposed intestine, blood path leading to the pack behind the sandy cliff. You could quip, indeed, how troublesome, being a fusion of material and spiritual. In how far the material descends; consumption is endless, so please, come along and let’s deceive one another.

For that’s the essence of a love song, isn’t it? It’s not as though I’m vehemently agreeing or disagreeing. I won’t lie about my guilt, it’s just a diversion. However selfishly driven, imagining the gods using this visit as justification to smush me happily; if I can’t treat with equanimity toward all lifeforms, to what may I be owed any fair judgment by my heavenly executioners? If a corner comes I can lock both arms above each shoulder and search for any shame. If you ever smashed a bug, however accidentally.

Don’t worry, PETA, please: I promise, I promise, the lyrics end happily. We can continue to dream, as we walk past the inanimate exhibits, fish bumping repeatedly into its painted cell walls, we can imagine the aquarium, few hours past midnight, nestled in a blurred moonlight by the rising sculpt of water. To flood in a Tsunami Express, and each fish will return back to their own Shire, embraced by their aunts and cousins. Won’t you join me in this chorus?

I leaned on the railing to watch the central tank of hammerheads and other shark friends. Persistently they darted back and forth, and I soothed myself thinking about, perhaps, they’re looking forward to their meal. Maybe some Lucky Charms instead of simulating the same natural ecosystems.

Ascending the escalator so the song tapered softly and, at the apex, in such silence, Asphodel’s butler took my coat of sins to hang right along the crystal awning.