Sometimes I am teased for my noises.
But it doesn’t matter, I have to make them anyway.
Another no good, very bad, what is going on with my juju these days? sort of workday. I’m doubting everything including the color of the sky or if winter will ever, to coin the now ubiquitous phrase, come. I feel wobbly and weak and there’s no place for wobbly and weak so out I will sweep it and draw in my wobbly and weak reserves of superpowered cojones and success tomorrow.
I don’t know that anything will do me any good. You ever just know that things are in motion that are well beyond you and maybe it’s going to pick you up and carry you somewhere…maybe home, maybe hell? Even so, wherever it is, you don’t expect to all of you to make it to your destination.
I don’t know that they like me very much and today was a bad day with no you in it and me just bobbing about after getting cracked up against the fact that you can call it a new start all you want, but if you still have the old poison in the barrel…it’s going to be hard to pull out a good apple.
I spent two hours working tonight and still have the sensation that somehow a knife is going to slide out of my screen and gouge me in the head. Like today when I thought I had done well and I wrecked printers and forgot important meetings and tried and tried and tried and did not make it close to the summit. I just get more curt emails that I have to swallow up all of my sentiment and smallness and attempts at being outsized and just reply to. I want to be able to quit apologizing, but moving and not moving seem to be equally wrong.
So sometimes, when no one is around to hear, or I believe that no one is, I make a series of noises.
But what people don’t understand on the rare occasion I am overheard is that it is the sound of an idea running through me. The idea is sometimes one of venting the steam that seems to be about to burst my skull apart, ahisssssssssssh. We do this so the goddess can slip out and go have a drink. She’s earned it for her constantly re-ordering of my mental soup. The sound is an acknowledgement that I feel, that even if I am afraid to speak it, have no one to speak it to, don’t trust it to be enough, it can go. It can leave me. It can go become something better.
Sometimes the sound is one of delight, of giddy happiness to be thinking about something wonderful coming and it’s like a train. It has this plugging rhythm and I feel myself move with it so it goes doo-chicka-doo-chicka-doo-chicka, like the soundtrack to an old black and white western, and my body will get real tight with excitement and my fingers will bend like weeping willow boughs, all twisted as I draw them skyward and contemplate while the sound goes how good it will be when whatever it is arrives full and intact.
Sometimes the sound is like it is tonight, sitting in bed with the fan on blast and the noise doesn’t have any rhythm or order and is both hsssssssssssssssssss and a series of intermittent clicks and it is the sound of me thinking about my mother’s cancer medicine working in her body, being the cancer medicine in her body, fighting against what is wrong and block-block-block-block-blocking it.
We’re so close, my little heart in my chest, that we sometimes circumvent our praised and prettied English and speak in onomatopoeia, it’s faster to transmit truth that way. It can’t go too far from its meaning as the body makes it as much as the brain.
Let it out. Let it out. Take it from your system and let it be in the world. Let the world hear what it makes in you. Let it hear if it likes the sound.
