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, but you’re not going to expect to be there when you arrive.
I don’t know that they like me very much and today was a bad day with no J. 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 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.
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 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, fighting against what is wrong and block-block-block-block-blocking it.