God, “Salt Slow” was a gut-wrenching read. There was something about it that felt like a confession, as if it were a piece that I should be looking away from. A part of “Salt Slow” that resonated so massively was this love between the man and woman that seemed to be eroding, which as the piece moves on it implies had already been wearing away. Behind the beautiful, horrifying imagery of over-grown birds and nets of dead sea life is a vulnerable relationship that seems to be improving and worsening at the same time. Their nights are gentle, but during the days they hardly look at each other. The image of their relationship being quite literally the ship they are on, delicately balanced at all times with the danger of throwing themselves overboard if they draw too near, is a precious idea that Armfield introduced and I am unable to let go of.
Getting the woman’s current pregnancy side by side with her miscarriage makes the degradation of their relationship and the following actions all the more painful. It clearly wasn’t the right time for it, but we see the way the man reacts as well as his mother. The blame is placed on her for what happened, without considering how she is affected. Miscarriage is an awful, paralytic thing for a lot of people. But here we get to see her second chance, the time that she does give birth. And this baby is ripped away too.
The heart is a complicated thing. By putting these characters in an apocalypse and having them serve as the only survivors that the reader sees, they are set up as a pseudo-Adam-and-Eve. Perhaps a more apt comparison would be Noah and Naamah. Reading it, I fully expected them to have the baby and raise it. To begin humanity anew, even with the more aquatic features. That hope is dashed across the deck of the boat along with the child. I suppose the story could be simplified, just say that the man was the villain and move on, but there is so much complicating that statement. There is a fragility to the way he is described, and again I draw back to their relationship as their boat. “Moving is an act of faith.” What is having a child, if not the ultimate movement?
I’m reading through the posts again, Dakota, and am struck again by the eloquence and insight of this. I particularly admired this passage: “The heart is a complicated thing. By putting these characters in an apocalypse and having them serve as the only survivors that the reader sees, they are set up as a pseudo-Adam-and-Eve. Perhaps a more apt comparison would be Noah and Naamah.”