Book Introduction
“Gravity is a Concentration of Understandings”
Introduction - “Gravity is a Concentration of Understandings”
https://www.blurb.com/b/12486553-gravity-is-a-concentration-of-understandings
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I drove down to Pacifica in the early afternoon to photograph the waves for a previous interview. As I was walking along the water, gazing through hyaline crests and shallows, I felt my body wanting to give; to no longer contest the reality of making this book and in turn the reality of the things I loved that left claw marks on me when they left. I looked into the water and for the first time, I saw what was inside me. For the first time, I saw a person so free they chose bondage; a receiver kept in orbit by a wordless storm. I never grew up religious and have no ties to organized religion, but have always been spiritual and believe in God. God, both in a humble human form and as the bodiless manifestation and incarnation of love. I looked into the waves, almost down in the sense that those waves became my entire field of vision, and said to God, “I’m ready. I fully surrender. I don’t know how, when, or where. All I know is now. I surrender.” I watched the water, which I could only describe as taking pictures of me, shift clockwise, counterclockwise, then clockwise again. I continued, “God, I don’t know how this book is going to get made. I don’t know how I’m going to follow my dreams.” My shoulders tightened as I inhaled nearly through my neck; the water taking pictures of me as tears flowed down my cheeks. I began to wonder if I had gotten in the water as something in me told me my tears were the same temperature as the shallows. Though, as quickly as my shoulders tightened, they loosened and almost turned me around in the direction of the rental car; an earthly push to move on. Unable to put words to what I had just experienced, I sat in the car for a few moments catching my breath, drying my eyes, checking the time, and thanking all that surrounded me. A voice in my head told me to go to the Golden Gate Bridge so I started the car, put it in the GPS, and went on my way.
I had landed in San Francisco the day before and went to the Golden Gate Bridge to catch the sunset. I sent a photo to my dad and my brother and his wife saying that I wanted to walk across it while I was in San Francisco. When I got back in the car in Pacifica, I had completely forgotten about sending that photo and wanting to walk across on this trip.
I followed the path to reach the pedestrian entrance to the bridge and found myself face-to-face with the anti-suicide safety nets they installed. It felt like two hands cupped my ears to hold my head in place so I couldn’t look away, but to also initiate the somatically profound experience and responsibility of being a conduit. The music in my headphones passing in and out of existence becoming intermittent and revelatory. Faces of those I’ve never met and never seen, flash behind my eyes and one by one, their outlines become as solid as mine in the crowd. I just needed to sit in peace with those who had passed on here. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t speak, I could only look upon as the separation between my outline and theirs slowly synthesized. The feeling of those hands over my ears growing stronger and gesturing my head up ever so slightly that my eyes, now out of my control, fall to my hands. My hands are open, fingers outstretched, perfectly still. I regain control of my body and just like in the car in Pacifica, I catch my breath and thank all that surrounds me.
Finding my way to the pedestrian entrance, I step foot on the bridge and begin my walk. Cars fly by, runners on their daily outings, couples taking photos, people from all over the world are here. I wondered if they felt what I felt. The only people I feel are the ones who have passed here. It scared me. With every step, I couldn’t feel my feet touching the ground. I made it to the first tower and stopped at the lookout point next to it. I felt someone reach through my thoracic spine to wrap themselves around my lungs as I became disorientingly nauseous. My body growing heavier and heavier and harder to move, a wordless storm began to paper mâché my limbs. I looked up to the sky to see the only grey clouds that day. They resembled sock puppets. Sock puppets slowly unraveling thread by thread wanting to be a catalyst of imagination one more time. Begging, just one more time. As my eyes chased the last grey cloud, I saw the top of the first tower. I wanted to throw up. I hadn’t felt fear like that in years. I heard a voice in my head and to this day I still don’t know if it was mine or someone else’s, but I heard it whisper “Remember”.
One of my all-time favorite games is Watch Dogs 2 and it’s based in San Francisco. I played it and replayed it nearly every day at the beginning of the pandemic. This was also when my suicidal thoughts were the strongest they had ever been. I lived inside that game and it gave me protection. There’s a mission in the game where you have to get to the top of one of the towers on the Golden Gate Bridge. And there’s a way to get back down, but I remembered I made my character jump, ultimately to his death knowing he could respawn. I made him jump and I guess I jumped too.
I put my hands on the base of the tower to steady myself and caught my breath. The significance of this moment engulfed me in its purpose. As a 21-year-old in 2020, I never thought that I would get the chance, 5 years later at 26, to completely rewrite the narrative of my death. And in person in the exact location the original narrative lived. I said to God again, “I surrender.” I looked down at the water. It was once again taking pictures of me, shifting clockwise, counterclockwise, then clockwise again. The nausea started to go away, the fear shifted to energetic awareness, and whoever had a hold on my lungs let go. I stood there quietly for a bit before continuing and finishing the walk across and back.
Another place in the game where you spend a decent amount of time was Alcatraz, so when I got back to the hotel that night I bought a ferry ticket to go over there in the morning. I got breakfast at the pier, walked over to board, found my spot, and naturally put the game’s soundtrack on in my headphones. As the ferry got closer and closer to the island, I could feel those hands wanting to cover my ears again. They hovered just within the sensory field. I couldn’t feel their actions, but I could feel them. I ran down to be one of the first off the ferry and as I was descending the last flight of stairs I felt those hands cup my ears. Simultaneously, that voice whispered again, “Remember”.
The first place I went was the main cell house. I stopped at every cell, looking in, looking back. I chose not to do the guided audio tour as something in and around me wanted me to experience it on my own. I found myself sitting in the hole - solitary confinement. I put my hands on the walls, floors, and bars; feeling the subtle vibrations of people walking. A bit of the nausea I got at the Golden Gate Bridge set in, though not nearly as intense. I felt the floor sway beneath me and my chest tighten. I wasn’t scared like at the Golden Gate Bridge. In fact, I wasn’t scared at all. Slowly, I stood up and moved on to the next place, this time finding myself in the recreation yard. I ran my hands along the entire wall surface of that yard. I opened myself up. About 3 hours had gone by and I got in line to catch one of the ferries back to San Francisco. I had service on the island, but not enough to get all my notifications and when I boarded the ferry I realized I got an email letting me know that I got awarded a grant that fully covered the cost of making this book. I put it together and I believe I got the email about the same time I went into solitary confinement. I again looked at the water and thanked all that surrounded me. This was the moment the book went from something I’m doing and something I’m passionate about to something I’m being called to do because I’m now fully walking the path of my purpose.
I lost everything to make this book, figurative and literally, both intermittently over the years and recently sequentially. I brutally and unlawfully lost my job. I lost trust in a community. I lost friendships. All things that I thought I needed for my lifework. It changed my brain chemistry. However, I never lost the fact that I know who I am; I always have and I always will.
This book is about putting your hands upon a story and letting it make new of your fingerprints.
© remy styrk 2025