Lara Kim

Floating in water, I always feel a little uneasy, like I might begin to drown at any moment. When I am on ground, I feel the same.

I recall an early memory, swimming up the Winchuck River in rural Oregon, cold clear water glistening over brassy smooth rocks, a writhing brown salamander with its bright orange belly gently stepping over my hand. My mother lays this plastic mat over the rocks, the sun is warm on our shoulders. Growing up spending countless summer days up the river imbues you with a certain sense of wildness I cannot articulate, but can feel. We developed our own weird ways of swimming, our small bodies navigating the current. At the most idealistic time in my childhood, we had an inflatable orca pool toy we brought to the river and took turns inflating with our breath. I felt a fondness for this creature as it took form, and felt a certain "aliveness" ascribed to it, from it's large eyes to it's near weightless, voluminous body. I feel safe in the presence of inflatable toys, with their pliable yet secure handles, made for small hands to grasp. I feel this insufflated being cares for me, not by being "alive" but because it becomes an extension of my life - a breath captured briefly, suspended within a membrane, before eventually returning to the void. Our breath gives everything we do and make form, and I want to capture it briefly, and hold it close, and let the air that has touched our lungs take the shape of a wish or a prayer, one that asks, "queerness, will you be here? when will you come?" and listening for our response (with bated breath). As the water rises, plunging those at the margins into further depths, what can we hold on to to survive?