One Night in Lingyuan
They say there is a man somewhere in China who can predict earthquakes by studying the behavior of snakes.
There is a tall, clear glass, carefully balanced on the very edge of my bedside table. It is full to the brim with delicious Taiwanese tap water. I ease it carefully just over the leading edge, on the very threshold of insatiable gravity.
Ever since the earthquake, this has become my nightly ritual. The glass. The water. The edge. Good night. If I am asleep, and it rattles silently over the edge and crashes onto the tile, it might buy me enough time to jump out of bed, run twenty-five feet down the hall, turn left through the living room, make another hard right, and then run/fall down twelve flights of concrete stairs to relative safety. It is the stairs that concern me the most. The stairwells are where most of the dead people are always found. Isn’t this true? I have noticed from previous heavy tremors that, lucky for me, most of the people in my building don’t seem to move quite as quickly as I do, or with the same urgency.
During intense tremors, closed doors produce a terrifying racket, twisting and jumping up and down in their frames. For this reason, I keep all the doors in my apartment propped slightly ajar, lest they become jammed shut, or become blocked by chunks of falling concrete and debris. I believe this could easily happen.
In the evenings I try to relax in the front of the television. Did you know that in Taiwan there is a Jackie Chan movie on almost everyday? I find it impossible to concentrate on any of his amazing moves because of the chain attached to the ceiling fan above my head. I find myself staring at it constantly, searching for the slightest movement. My heart races at the tiniest wiggle. Even an imagined jiggle. I’m exhausted by fear. I know exactly where my passport is but I haven’t had a proper bath in five days.
They say there is a man somewhere in China who can predict earthquakes by studying the behavior of snakes.
