Fault Line
July 7 2016


I read how unpredictable
lightning is.
That it can cover vast distances.
That it can appear
out of clear blue sky.
That it can blind-side instantly,
indifferent
to innocence, or guilt.

That the faintest rumbling, sinister cloud
on the other side of the mountain
might not be too far.
And, like a sniper’s target,
dead
before you hear the shot.

Shit happens
fate determines us.
Like the accident of birth.
Like the anarchy of chance, the injustice of luck.
Like living in an earthquake zone,
where the ground below
can turn to quicksand,
and even clear blue sky
cannot be trusted. 

But then I also read
it doesn’t strike just once.
Because whatever set the odds
still holds
  --  the highest up, standing tall,
colliding fronts
exposed.

So while I’m reluctant to blame myself
when the universe conspired, there were no signs,
should I have known
wrong place, wrong time?

That there is somewhere on earth
lightning never strikes?



A National Geographic documentary about lightning I once watched left a powerful impression. It told the story of a cyclist who was out for a ride on a beautiful day, and was left severely brain damaged after having been struck by lightning that came out of the proverbial clear blue sky. There was an electrical storm many miles away on the other side of a low mountain range, and a stray bolt sought him out. So whenever there is even the faintest rumbling in the distance, I am wary.

It also dispelled the myth of lightning never striking twice. Because it does:  what made a favourable place to strike still applies, and so there is a higher likelihood it will strike there again.

The poem revisits a familiar trope of mine:  that we have far less agency in our lives than we flatter ourselves imagining; that contingency over-rules the best laid plans; that things can change in an instant; and that we are insignificant and the universe indifferent. There is the illusion of safety, for one -- no matter how carefully we construct our lives, there is no such thing as being safe. I have never lived on a fault line, but I can imagine the feeling of constant uncertainty. Yet we all live under clear blue skies, and think nothing of it. 

The fact that you would be zapped before even hearing it is what’s most frightening: that because there is no warning, you could theoretically spend every second fearing the sky is just about to come crashing down. Of course, we don’t live like this. We are excellent at denial. We are not paralysed by vastly unlikely calamities . Nevertheless, low probability but high consequence events make an impression. And that’s what I tried to convey in the poem:  a feeling of uncertainty and helplessness. I think the seismic analogy captures this well: like  caught in a vice between heaven and earth, the feeling that not only can’t you trust the ground you’re standing on, but also the sky overhead.