Laughing a little, we rolled over. I settled back against his side and nestled my head into his shoulder. Light breathing filled the room and he stroked over my shoulder. Small comments drifted between us and I could feel a laziness settle it. Grinning, I propped my head up on his chest and looked at him.
“Why don't you play the piano for me,” I coaxed him out of our bed and shooed him towards the living room. My piano lay ahead – I remembered him commenting on it a few nights ago. I was eager to hear someone else play. The piano always seemed to speak to my secret place.
“Just so you know, I'm not playing for you in return.” I joked, popping his bottom, warning him not to expect me to perform for him in return. I never played for anyone – playing the piano created a path to a secret place of mine – not many were invited down that path.
“That's fine.” Confidently he sat on my piano bench. I stood slightly awkwardly by the piano. It is an upright and I didn't want to curl up next to him on the bench but I did want to be where I could see him as he played.I was eager to hear him play, watching someone play pieces that they love is a treat.
His fingers pressed the keys and I was startled. They weren't soft. They weren't slow. They weren't light. They didn't ease over the white keys and tease the black keys forward. Instead he ran over them, mashed them, forced them. I shrank into my seat I beside the piano.
A mass of sound waves pounded over me. It could be described as nothing more refined than that. From the waves hitting my ear I did not need a visual to know his foot sat heavy, foreboding on the pedal – forcing it down ruthlessly - trying to draw out more sound but not realizing he was choking the very sound he was creating.
I couldn't bring myself to look at his fingers which carelessly pounded each note from the keyboard. They were quick and uncaring. They didn't bother to draw out each note or caress it to fullness, leaving some heavy and some light. There was no acknowledgment of difference between soft and hard, quick or long. They ran over each sound as if each note was no different from the one before or the one following. I sat, shocked, as note after note rushed towards me, calling out for help as he ruthlessly ran each one down without notice.
I barely managed to glance up at him, feeling horror course through me. He looked over and smiled, confident and happy - slaughtering note after simple careful soft note as if they were no more than an incidental happenstance in his life. My horror must have not made it to my eyes.
“Do you recognize this? Beach Boys” he said, continuing to ram notes through the air between us. There was no distinction in his fingers, no thought or coaxing in his hands. My body wanted to withdraw, rushed and undignified, into a ball – retreating from such lack of awareness. It couldn't imagine itself next to someone that could not imagine slowness. It couldn't understand someone that didn't dwell in the quietness between notes...someone that didn't understand the beauty of the rest, the value of the silent breath, the quietness of the slow coaxing of a simply melody, the importance of drawing out a soul not crowded by a sustaining pedal.
He ran over it all, covering individual voices with a heavy foot that refused to let up enough for a single thought to catch a breath. Oblivious, he choked the life out of each line of melody.
The war on sound halted and silence filled the air. I heard the heat in my apartment cut on – loud and hissing – insistent that we pay attention. Realizing I was frozen in place, I jerked my eyes towards his face and form. For the first time, he seemed only like a mound sitting on my piano bench, a hideous formless mound, not defined by anything – not even his own skin. He appeared a mindless lump that trumped through wild life and failed to notice delicate Violets he probably trod upon without notice or care.
“I'm sure you play much better than me,” he said, leafing through my sheet music that I stored on the piano.
To him I'm sure I muttered something quiet like “Definitely not – how long have you been playing?”
To myself I whispered, “I may not play as quickly or as many notes – but at least I don't commit murder.” I knew later I would need to caress my keyboard back to life.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Seat of the Soul
My experience of my world starts with the skin – is absorbed physically into my body and spread out to the rest of my consciousness. I gather bits of information seep into my skin and read vibrations that pound my body; then, when it is all collected, my brain begins the translation of what is happening. The translation is needed for the future, for the time I will be required to speak about my experience and my life. The time between the first sensations and the beginning of the translation is pure – a time when I am able to communicate with myself with intense intimacy.
My soul resides just beneath the skin, instantly translating myself outward and interpreting messages coming inward. The soul is caressed by both my skin and my muscles, massaged between them with growing strength and smoothness as I evolve. I’m wrapped in a give and take of soul and body – each one feeding off of the other in a symbiotic relationship that moves in perfect harmony. Within this exchange, no words exist; not once will my soul misunderstand me; I trust it implicitly to understand without the need of language. I am greedy for that silence in which everything is wholly understood; where nothing is fragmented into understandable pieces. I wallow in that space that is swollen with no need to speak.
My soul resides just beneath the skin, instantly translating myself outward and interpreting messages coming inward. The soul is caressed by both my skin and my muscles, massaged between them with growing strength and smoothness as I evolve. I’m wrapped in a give and take of soul and body – each one feeding off of the other in a symbiotic relationship that moves in perfect harmony. Within this exchange, no words exist; not once will my soul misunderstand me; I trust it implicitly to understand without the need of language. I am greedy for that silence in which everything is wholly understood; where nothing is fragmented into understandable pieces. I wallow in that space that is swollen with no need to speak.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Itch
Shelly’s skin itched something fierce. The insistent irritation invaded her thoughts and tore her mind from her task. Her skin had developed tiny needle pitched voices that pierced her brain directly, demanding attention. Shelly’s finger muscles began to rebel her brain’s command to remain at ease and began to twitch. She knew this was a clear sign her fingers and the voices were winning.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.
Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.
Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.
Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.
Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.
Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.
Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.
Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.
Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.
Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.
Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Accepting a Gift
When we lose something infinitely important to us we splinter apart. We burst apart, pieces of us fleeing in shards, flying to get away from us. In that split second, our perception of time is slowed and we watch the explosion drive parts of us from us, frozen in our shock and helplessness. There is no stopping this flight. Some of our pieces will return. Many will be damaged but will heal with time. These pieces will snuggle back into their home and our lives will appear normal. But the pieces that don’t return will leave a vacancy.
Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.
Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.
Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.
But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.
Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.
Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.
Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.
Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.
Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.
But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.
Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.
Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Mr. Odd Job Says
Originally this blog had two contributors - Mr. Odd Job - we had a kind of call and response. Mr. Odd Job has been busy - but sends this response to this one...
Mr. Odd Job's Bed
I hug the narrow strip of land, my back to the expanse of dark behind me. The waters roll and my breath catches. I am a stranger at the sea, and I have come to hate and fear her like a primitive. Though I am layered in cloth armor, the ocean reaches for me. I can never tell if it is intentional or not, and in truth it doesn't matter. In the daylight of a stolen afternoon, I can enjoy the expanse. My body uncurls and I feel gigantic and free. Blood swells in me as my dreams relish in the open calm of sheets, pillows and blankets. In this moment, I have no dominion and no dominion has me, the ocean loses its malevolence, becomes an extension of me and I float, swim and dive in the my own skin.
Mr. Odd Job's Bed
I hug the narrow strip of land, my back to the expanse of dark behind me. The waters roll and my breath catches. I am a stranger at the sea, and I have come to hate and fear her like a primitive. Though I am layered in cloth armor, the ocean reaches for me. I can never tell if it is intentional or not, and in truth it doesn't matter. In the daylight of a stolen afternoon, I can enjoy the expanse. My body uncurls and I feel gigantic and free. Blood swells in me as my dreams relish in the open calm of sheets, pillows and blankets. In this moment, I have no dominion and no dominion has me, the ocean loses its malevolence, becomes an extension of me and I float, swim and dive in the my own skin.
Ocean of Bed
At the start of this journey, I stayed close to shore. I laid myself gingerly on 'my side' of the bed and stared across the empty space next to me. On the other side of the body pillow I hugged like a life raft, a great empty ocean mocked me. No matter how often I quieted myself and held onto the life preserver, I would wake up confused and lost when I woke up in the uncharted waters. The night stand would be to further away and I had to strain to find the snooze button; the edge of the bed seemed so to great a distance for my short legs to reach to.
So slowly I didn't realize I was doing it, I learned to swim, float, and dive. During my sleep, my body let go and trusted itself. No longer did my toes search out to find that ankle and my back decided that it wasn't searching to lean against something warm anymore. My arms decided they were tired of the fruitless search for a chest to rest on and my head began to race eagerly to the pillow instead of a shoulder. While my brain rested, my body taught what beauty there was in the weightlessness of the ocean that had frightened me a short time before.
Now I stretch to each far corner – testing the limits of the bed. The pillows that used to be body floats are slowly becoming more of a hassle than a reassurance. My limbs have found the easy rhythm of this ocean and they rest quietly in a dreaming back float, no longer searching for anything. We've all found home.
So slowly I didn't realize I was doing it, I learned to swim, float, and dive. During my sleep, my body let go and trusted itself. No longer did my toes search out to find that ankle and my back decided that it wasn't searching to lean against something warm anymore. My arms decided they were tired of the fruitless search for a chest to rest on and my head began to race eagerly to the pillow instead of a shoulder. While my brain rested, my body taught what beauty there was in the weightlessness of the ocean that had frightened me a short time before.
Now I stretch to each far corner – testing the limits of the bed. The pillows that used to be body floats are slowly becoming more of a hassle than a reassurance. My limbs have found the easy rhythm of this ocean and they rest quietly in a dreaming back float, no longer searching for anything. We've all found home.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Morning Companions
Jackson's eyes snapped open; she heard Routine rustling beside her, a clear indication she was about to be herded to the shower. Her detached body began the climb from the bed and the cool walk to the bathroom. The radio buzzed behind her with the same volume it did every morning. Routine bustled around her freeing her from the need to think about reaching for the hair dryer; he erased the need to really see the table she skirted on the way into the kitchen. Routine ensured the eggs were made, her gym bag was a packed, and her wallet and cell phone were in the proper purse. She was eternally grateful every day at lunch that he oversaw to her nutritional needs.
Routine efficiently ran the the mornings in their house. Jackson willingly allowed him control and disappeared into the background. Routine worked in silence and she smiled at his focus. Even so, Jackson thought she heard sounds echoing through her head. Routine familiar rhythm rocked her body and Jackson began to listen to the sounds else in a daze.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
"He makes eggs every morning. This morning they seem to be a bit fluffier. I wonder how that happened."
.
..
...
....
"I think I'd like to find a gentle man. I wonder if that would work..."
.
..
"It's Friday. That means it's movie night. Hope the movie's good."
These sounds didn't even come through as conversation to Jackson. She felt they were on the other side of the side of her cocoon. Perhaps this other person was talking to Routine to keep him company. She certainly wasn't much of a companion in the morning and didn't want to intrude on the conversation.
"I wonder which bus will show up first today. Maybe I should put on my headphones instead of read."
.
"We don't normally stop here. Oh...it looks like the "Hey Lady" didn't get on today. Hope she's alright."
.
"His skin looks like he uses lotion. Wonder if he does lotion his elbows. I think that might be odd for a man but who am I to say. His hair cut is perfect – every hair in place. Too cute and a bit scary."
Jackson was stunned. The sounds started to pound past her, one right after another – never giving her space to hear the silence. She wondered if it bother Routine but he seemed unphased, continuing his methodical plod into the new day. The conversation's pace increased until there seemed to be no space to draw a breath.
"She looks like she' really running hard when she runs. Her form makes her look like she's not in control of her own body."......."I love living in an active town."........"I mean, really. It's 7:30am – it's not so hot that you need to be only dressed in shorts. But you do look prettier when you run that way.".........."They're in full army gear with backpacks and running the other way. Wonder if that means anything. Wonder if the guys in the shorts would feel inferior if they had to run past the army guys."
Routine resolutely plodded with her, keeping her company as she walked across the campus and headed inside the building. Everyday, she felt him leaving her side about the time she stepped inside and pressed the button of the elevator. He usually just wanted to see her safely to work. As his presence slipped further and further away, the sounds she heard faded with him.
"Why is there something in my mailbox – who in the world leaves things in my mailbox between 5pm and 7am!"
.
..
"Wonder will Jackie come up to say hello today."
.
..
...
....
"Coffee sounds like an excellent idea........"
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..
...
....
......
...........
................
Silence.
Routine efficiently ran the the mornings in their house. Jackson willingly allowed him control and disappeared into the background. Routine worked in silence and she smiled at his focus. Even so, Jackson thought she heard sounds echoing through her head. Routine familiar rhythm rocked her body and Jackson began to listen to the sounds else in a daze.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
"He makes eggs every morning. This morning they seem to be a bit fluffier. I wonder how that happened."
.
..
...
....
"I think I'd like to find a gentle man. I wonder if that would work..."
.
..
"It's Friday. That means it's movie night. Hope the movie's good."
These sounds didn't even come through as conversation to Jackson. She felt they were on the other side of the side of her cocoon. Perhaps this other person was talking to Routine to keep him company. She certainly wasn't much of a companion in the morning and didn't want to intrude on the conversation.
"I wonder which bus will show up first today. Maybe I should put on my headphones instead of read."
.
"We don't normally stop here. Oh...it looks like the "Hey Lady" didn't get on today. Hope she's alright."
.
"His skin looks like he uses lotion. Wonder if he does lotion his elbows. I think that might be odd for a man but who am I to say. His hair cut is perfect – every hair in place. Too cute and a bit scary."
Jackson was stunned. The sounds started to pound past her, one right after another – never giving her space to hear the silence. She wondered if it bother Routine but he seemed unphased, continuing his methodical plod into the new day. The conversation's pace increased until there seemed to be no space to draw a breath.
"She looks like she' really running hard when she runs. Her form makes her look like she's not in control of her own body."......."I love living in an active town."........"I mean, really. It's 7:30am – it's not so hot that you need to be only dressed in shorts. But you do look prettier when you run that way.".........."They're in full army gear with backpacks and running the other way. Wonder if that means anything. Wonder if the guys in the shorts would feel inferior if they had to run past the army guys."
Routine resolutely plodded with her, keeping her company as she walked across the campus and headed inside the building. Everyday, she felt him leaving her side about the time she stepped inside and pressed the button of the elevator. He usually just wanted to see her safely to work. As his presence slipped further and further away, the sounds she heard faded with him.
"Why is there something in my mailbox – who in the world leaves things in my mailbox between 5pm and 7am!"
.
..
"Wonder will Jackie come up to say hello today."
.
..
...
....
"Coffee sounds like an excellent idea........"
.
..
...
....
......
...........
................
Silence.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Locked in
I stare calmly out the window and watch the city slide by the bus window. My headphones in my hears but the device attached to them is silent. I sit and listen with a placid face.
Inside the cage of my chest, I feel it, scraching relentlessly to break through. Screeching in an unknown language – there are no words that conveys their meaning, yet I understand each piercing sounds. I control the flinch threatening to cross my face.
The creature beats itself against the walls, bouncing off of them in a fury that threatens to shake my entire being and I feel my muscles clench into stone in order to contain the violence. Frustration screams from the creature in the form of vibrations and furious shaking. I can tell it wants free.
Would be claws would rip my throat out and my breathing becomes shallow in a concentrated effort to give it as little room to move as possible. Maybe if it's constricted, it will stop thrashing and quiet down. But my reasoning fails. It becomes more animated in it's need to lash out and hit. I become more resolute to quiet it.
I long to give it control - to let its words become mine – to give it command over my fists. I long to throw the hissy fit that is raging inside of me. At times I believe that if I could just let it free, it would fly from my body and leave me alone, calm and once again at peace. But I know that this is an illusion, a dangerous plot the creature whispers inside my head at a volume that seems deafening.
I will have to wait it out. The reasoning tone will seep into my thoughts and over the course of the days, I will talk my creature into a state of calm. It will once again become part of my soul and we'll sleep together through the night, comforting each other.
Until then, the battle will be exhausting.
The bus stops and I gather my things to my shoulder. Stepping to the door, I drop the headphones from my ears and cheerfully thank the driver – the same as any other day. The walk to the apartment is as slow and deliberate as any other day. My creature is visible to no one but me. Somehow that comforts both of us.
Inside the cage of my chest, I feel it, scraching relentlessly to break through. Screeching in an unknown language – there are no words that conveys their meaning, yet I understand each piercing sounds. I control the flinch threatening to cross my face.
The creature beats itself against the walls, bouncing off of them in a fury that threatens to shake my entire being and I feel my muscles clench into stone in order to contain the violence. Frustration screams from the creature in the form of vibrations and furious shaking. I can tell it wants free.
Would be claws would rip my throat out and my breathing becomes shallow in a concentrated effort to give it as little room to move as possible. Maybe if it's constricted, it will stop thrashing and quiet down. But my reasoning fails. It becomes more animated in it's need to lash out and hit. I become more resolute to quiet it.
I long to give it control - to let its words become mine – to give it command over my fists. I long to throw the hissy fit that is raging inside of me. At times I believe that if I could just let it free, it would fly from my body and leave me alone, calm and once again at peace. But I know that this is an illusion, a dangerous plot the creature whispers inside my head at a volume that seems deafening.
I will have to wait it out. The reasoning tone will seep into my thoughts and over the course of the days, I will talk my creature into a state of calm. It will once again become part of my soul and we'll sleep together through the night, comforting each other.
Until then, the battle will be exhausting.
The bus stops and I gather my things to my shoulder. Stepping to the door, I drop the headphones from my ears and cheerfully thank the driver – the same as any other day. The walk to the apartment is as slow and deliberate as any other day. My creature is visible to no one but me. Somehow that comforts both of us.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Black Silk
Finally, it was time to indulge in the most decadent thing she’d ever worn. She tried to give this to herself once a year. Once a year she wore nothing but black silk.
Earlier in the day, she had stripped her sun dress over her head, dropped it to the sand next to her bag and froze in pleasure. Her firm belief had become firmer. Yes, the first time in the year that the sun and wind caresses every inch of skin you can possibly give to it is one of the sweetest moments of each year. She had pulled the sensations of the warm sand up through her feet and concentrated on spreading that through her limbs. Then she had set off for the water.
She started stripping slowly in preparation for this moment of the year. First came her forearms and a bit of ankle between her shoe and pant leg. For a couple weeks, that’s all that she could expose to the cooler air. But she was so eager for the touch of the sun she indulged the small spots that could handle the weather.
Gradually the creeping months peeled back her sleeves, revealing the elbows and continuing the slide upwards to her shoulder. Her pants became lighter and shorter. She felt less weight pressing her down as the days went on and there was a feeling of giddiness descending around her. She now had slightly tanned arms and her legs loved the heat of the sun.
As the sun grew hotter, she traded tennis shoes for toenail polish and flip flops. Straight heavy skirts were cheerfully abandoned for light summer dresses that let air flow through her outfits. Then the summer dresses came off leaving a bikini.
Then she traded the bikini for black silk. Tonight.
She sunk into the water and watched the sky turn darker and darker. Eventually the entire world wore black and she felt in suspended in it. She laughed at the moon and pulled herself into a ball. Flipping, she drove herself down, further into the core. She could feel blackness slide along her body and she turned, rising towards the surface. The night air was cool on her face but she could still feel the blackness on her face. The separation between the two surfaces was less defined here. She was less defined here.
She lingered as long as she dared and then, drawing in a breath and smoothing her hair back from her forehead, she headed towards the beach. She started the slow process of dressing again.
First the bikini and then a sundress….
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Pancake Layers
Standing on the back porch, I heard the door behind me slam shut and felt my sister come up beside me. I held a red-headed doll in a fancy dress in my hands. It was brand new and for my birthday. She admired it for a while and I could feel her wanting to hold it. Then she asked me if she if she could hold it. I didn’t want her to! It was my birthday and this was my doll. But then I remembered - since it was my birthday I could do anything I wanted. I said sure and handed it to her. Then I bite her. Then I got a spanking – on my birthday.
Getting my own jar of peanut butter, one I didn’t have to share, always made me excited. Jumping down off the bus and running inside was always so much more exciting when you knew that you could scoop up creamy peanut butter and lick it from the spoon. The jar would last as long or as little as you could stand. You didn’t have to share unless you wanted to be nice. The thick butter would stay on the spoon and you'd insert the whole spoonful into your mouth. Then you withdraw int slowly, skimming the first layer off and feeling it change shapes in your mouth. One spoon could last a very long time if it was eaten right.
The red dishes were being laid out on the table cloth when I got home. I had been looking forward to this all day. Mom had made ravioli special – just because it was my birthday and that’s what I wanted to eat. There would be a salad and Cherries in the Snow later for dessert. I felt a thrill watching the fancy dishes, deep cherry cut glass red, sparkling as they were being placed on the table. The light seemed to dance in time with my tummy. All this just for me because today I was special.
I got a doll that was the size of real baby, just the thing I had been really really wanting. My neighbor had a baby doll that was the exact size of a real baby and I wanted my own life size doll. Those small dumbed-down versions weren’t for real girls. I got her and carried her around, pretending she was real. My sister made her a couple dresses that had her name on them and she became a real comfort to me. Her body continued to fit mine as I grew and she remained a child. I talked to her in college and cried on her shoulder when I got a divorce.
The wrapping paper came off and there it was. There was a soft leather bound, blue bible. My name was printed in gold letters just like I’d seen on other bibles at church. The sides were gold and the corners of the pages rounded, allowing my fingers to slide over them gracefully. There is nothing more perfect than a book that lays just perfectly in your hands, whose pages stroke your fingers back with the same softness you stroke them with. Years later that book sported more highlight colors and pen marks than I would have imagined possible.
The box did indeed hold the alarm clock that was advertised on the outside of the box. I guess I was old enough to get myself up now. The small radio alarm clock would snooze for 9 minutes and then wake me up again. The pattern is ingrained in my sleep patterns now. In high school, it woke me with classic rock and John Boy and Billy. In college, it spat me out of bed with a annoyingly pitched alarm that bleated instantly at my head. During its last days, 15 years later, it edged me awake and out into the world with NPR voices.
Tossing the towel over the rack, I reach for the hairdryer and freeze. Cocking my head to one side, I concentrate certain that I’m hearing things. Who would be calling me this early in the morning on a work day? Picking it up, my heart starts beating just a bit quicker – it’s my parents – I wonder what’s wrong. “Happy Birthday” mom says cheerfully. “OH! Thank you!” The worry dissipates and I smile. I had forgotten I was a year older today – leave it up to a mom to let me know there’s one more year passed in my life. I leave the house that day with a smile.
Soon, there will be another layer in my stack of birthday pancakes. They aren’t all steamy and delicious, or soaked in comforting butter. But the layers that arrived cold have been warmed over the years. The butter and syrup have soaked in delicious spots and I take a bite and savor each layer. So many different, complicated flavors, simple flavors - spicy, sweet and bitter. Most importantly, they all blend together to make something delicious – my life.
Getting my own jar of peanut butter, one I didn’t have to share, always made me excited. Jumping down off the bus and running inside was always so much more exciting when you knew that you could scoop up creamy peanut butter and lick it from the spoon. The jar would last as long or as little as you could stand. You didn’t have to share unless you wanted to be nice. The thick butter would stay on the spoon and you'd insert the whole spoonful into your mouth. Then you withdraw int slowly, skimming the first layer off and feeling it change shapes in your mouth. One spoon could last a very long time if it was eaten right.
The red dishes were being laid out on the table cloth when I got home. I had been looking forward to this all day. Mom had made ravioli special – just because it was my birthday and that’s what I wanted to eat. There would be a salad and Cherries in the Snow later for dessert. I felt a thrill watching the fancy dishes, deep cherry cut glass red, sparkling as they were being placed on the table. The light seemed to dance in time with my tummy. All this just for me because today I was special.
I got a doll that was the size of real baby, just the thing I had been really really wanting. My neighbor had a baby doll that was the exact size of a real baby and I wanted my own life size doll. Those small dumbed-down versions weren’t for real girls. I got her and carried her around, pretending she was real. My sister made her a couple dresses that had her name on them and she became a real comfort to me. Her body continued to fit mine as I grew and she remained a child. I talked to her in college and cried on her shoulder when I got a divorce.
The wrapping paper came off and there it was. There was a soft leather bound, blue bible. My name was printed in gold letters just like I’d seen on other bibles at church. The sides were gold and the corners of the pages rounded, allowing my fingers to slide over them gracefully. There is nothing more perfect than a book that lays just perfectly in your hands, whose pages stroke your fingers back with the same softness you stroke them with. Years later that book sported more highlight colors and pen marks than I would have imagined possible.
The box did indeed hold the alarm clock that was advertised on the outside of the box. I guess I was old enough to get myself up now. The small radio alarm clock would snooze for 9 minutes and then wake me up again. The pattern is ingrained in my sleep patterns now. In high school, it woke me with classic rock and John Boy and Billy. In college, it spat me out of bed with a annoyingly pitched alarm that bleated instantly at my head. During its last days, 15 years later, it edged me awake and out into the world with NPR voices.
Tossing the towel over the rack, I reach for the hairdryer and freeze. Cocking my head to one side, I concentrate certain that I’m hearing things. Who would be calling me this early in the morning on a work day? Picking it up, my heart starts beating just a bit quicker – it’s my parents – I wonder what’s wrong. “Happy Birthday” mom says cheerfully. “OH! Thank you!” The worry dissipates and I smile. I had forgotten I was a year older today – leave it up to a mom to let me know there’s one more year passed in my life. I leave the house that day with a smile.
Soon, there will be another layer in my stack of birthday pancakes. They aren’t all steamy and delicious, or soaked in comforting butter. But the layers that arrived cold have been warmed over the years. The butter and syrup have soaked in delicious spots and I take a bite and savor each layer. So many different, complicated flavors, simple flavors - spicy, sweet and bitter. Most importantly, they all blend together to make something delicious – my life.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Ink
I stare at the character - wondering if this is the correct thing to do. Asking it to exist forever in my skin seems like a big step. Would the two of us get along as we both aged? Were we compatible enough to coexist in the same body. Was I sure I wanted to explain it over and over again?
The bite of the needle keeps me focused, unforgiving in it's insistence that you pay attention; the buzz keeps my nerves jangling. The sudden stillness of the air shocks me; the artist pauses long enough to gather more ink, wipe the blood from my hip and grease the needle. The soft sting of my raw skin comforts me and I feel an immediate relaxation through every single muscle. Then, I feel his hand touch my hip, the buzzing starts up again - bringing my nerves with it, and I tense immediately, preparing for the return of the bite.
When it's over, I stand up - feeling slightly smug and a tad victorious. I've got a new badge - a new addition to my body. There, on my hip, is a new piece of jewelry - but one that won't snag on my cloths or break when accidentally jerked. I don't have to worry about it ever matching my outfit or display it for others. I'm content to know it's just there - decorating my skin, dancing when I move.
For me, tattooing about making a concept a living part of you. It's about taking a thought into yourself so deeply with it that you can no longer feel the difference between you and it - so that it moves when you moves, grows as you grow and changes as you change. The concept has now changed you visibly as much as it has changed your soul.
The bite of the needle keeps me focused, unforgiving in it's insistence that you pay attention; the buzz keeps my nerves jangling. The sudden stillness of the air shocks me; the artist pauses long enough to gather more ink, wipe the blood from my hip and grease the needle. The soft sting of my raw skin comforts me and I feel an immediate relaxation through every single muscle. Then, I feel his hand touch my hip, the buzzing starts up again - bringing my nerves with it, and I tense immediately, preparing for the return of the bite.
When it's over, I stand up - feeling slightly smug and a tad victorious. I've got a new badge - a new addition to my body. There, on my hip, is a new piece of jewelry - but one that won't snag on my cloths or break when accidentally jerked. I don't have to worry about it ever matching my outfit or display it for others. I'm content to know it's just there - decorating my skin, dancing when I move.
For me, tattooing about making a concept a living part of you. It's about taking a thought into yourself so deeply with it that you can no longer feel the difference between you and it - so that it moves when you moves, grows as you grow and changes as you change. The concept has now changed you visibly as much as it has changed your soul.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Strings
I sat, staring at the table, swinging a leg, hoping that the meeting wouldn’t turn into the time waste that they always seemed to be. Trying to think of ways to make the most of my time, I started making a mental grocery list. Of course, I had forgotten that one actually had to have a menu in order to plan a list of groceries, so I sighed, shifting both in my seat and in my head.
The other people in our small group filled the conference table one by one, dripping in from the rain to puddle in their seats with the blank look of people attending a meeting that they neither understand the need for nor feel the desire to be at. Behind every chair stood the invisible boss that had ordered us to trudge through the rain.
The corner of my eye caught a silver haired lady walking into the room, capturing everyone’s attention. She was a stranger to our weekly group staring session but she seemed to think she belonged in our group. Pulling out a large black folder, she established herself as the answer to all the questions we’d developed over the last month. The sheet of paper she carefully laid in front of her was an exact copy of the one in front of me, only hers had answers following each question mark. I shifted again, preparing to be enthralled or to at least give the impression that I cared about what would be said today.
She began to speak and suddenly my attention snapped into place. Here was a person who seemed to be made entirely from a human salvage yard. Her entire body seemed to function independently from each other, as if the parts had not yet learned how to work together. Each motion, breath, word seemed to come through as a string of unrelated events and I watched in a kind of stupefied fascination.
She moved her hands as if they were perhaps controlled by a distant remote control. Someone was playing a joystick somewhere, trying desperately to get the hands to create a complicated cat’s cradle. Or maybe the game was based on a grandmother knitting and the grandmother had managed to tangle her hands in an inescapable trap. Either way, her pink tipped fingers seemed to be still functioning under the command of their previous owner and rebelled against any pleads her brain may have been making to help her supplement the points she was making to the table around her.
Her facial expressions had little effect at emphasizing any points that came from her mouth. Her cheeks seemed to work on a random pulley system that jerked them upwards towards her forehead at unpredictable times. During the middle of points, where a smile was not needed, a joker like look suddenly sprung into place and her lips yanked upwards without any consideration for the words she was trying to form. The entire time this stranger’s face continued to scroll through a random selection of expressions, much as a screensaver sifts and displays pictures. The lips always arrived into position slightly behind the eyes or the cheeks slightly ahead of the rest of the face. Miraculously, nothing ever seemed to work in harmony with each other as if each muscle was warring to take the lead in the expression that was rising to the face.
I began feeling as if I were watching a dubbed movie; not only did the facial expressions seem to be out of time but the speech seemed off to. Unbelievably, her lips seemed to be forming words vastly different than the ones that were landing on my ears; perhaps this was a ventriloquist act gone horribly wrong.
Overwhelmed by the strange symphony in front of me, I watched, mesmerized by this strange interaction in front of me. I couldn’t look away from her. Even her breath seemed to run independently of her control. Her chest jerked slightly or her shoulders twitched upwards, all in an uncoordinated attempt to allow the lungs to expand. Without concern for the rhythm of her speech, air seemed to bubble up at odd times, something she seemed blissfully unaware of.
I sat back, stunned, a trapped witness to this oddity dancing before me.
The meeting ended with little accomplished, just as every previous meeting. But as I gathered my papers into my folder, I felt transported. My short walk back to the office slid past me unnoticed as I tried to replay what I had just seen. Back at the building, I entered the elevator, blinked, and convinced myself it had been a really odd dream.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Meet Giddy Freedom
The hand of Giddy Freedom pushed me forward; I stumbled just a little and laughed out loud. She’d snuck up on me and started pulling me towards a walk as soon as I stepped out of the building. Her offer was incredibly tempting, especially when I weighed it against the dark dungeon of the gym and the never ending run of the treadmill. She had beckoned so seductively that I tucked my head and headed towards her, suddenly intent on playing hooky.
Giddy had led the way through the campus and headed across the quad. The sun brought out short summer dresses and white legs. The campus was covered colorful dress splayed against brilliant spring grass. She and I ambled, bumping into each other; energetic electrons bouncing off each other and working ourselves into frenzy. We giggled like embarrassed curious school kids when we saw a couple kiss and gawked at the shirtless young man catching the Frisbee.
True to her style, Giddy had suddenly streaked across the lawn and began twirling around in front of a fiddle player. I leaned against a tree to give her time to work the music out of her body. I understood – I could feel the flutter that the bluegrass encouraged growing in my own chest. Just as mesmerized as she, I watched in a trance and lost myself in the voice of the guitar player when he hesitantly began a ballad. We were off again.
Now, she was pushing me; I could feel her hand on my back. I could feel her urge me forward, laughing in my ear that we had nothing to do, nowhere to be, there was nothing stopping us from anything. Ms. Freedom always knew the little things to say. Her touch seemed to sink inside my chest and stir everything up but I didn’t speed up or slow down. Instead I simply expanded to let Giddy ease inside my body. She was a great fit – she rode just below the skin and I knew that the rest of the trip home would bring nothing but amusement, beautiful impulses, secret smiles and bouncy steps.
Giddy and I were gonna have a fine spring stroll – just the two of us.
Giddy had led the way through the campus and headed across the quad. The sun brought out short summer dresses and white legs. The campus was covered colorful dress splayed against brilliant spring grass. She and I ambled, bumping into each other; energetic electrons bouncing off each other and working ourselves into frenzy. We giggled like embarrassed curious school kids when we saw a couple kiss and gawked at the shirtless young man catching the Frisbee.
True to her style, Giddy had suddenly streaked across the lawn and began twirling around in front of a fiddle player. I leaned against a tree to give her time to work the music out of her body. I understood – I could feel the flutter that the bluegrass encouraged growing in my own chest. Just as mesmerized as she, I watched in a trance and lost myself in the voice of the guitar player when he hesitantly began a ballad. We were off again.
Now, she was pushing me; I could feel her hand on my back. I could feel her urge me forward, laughing in my ear that we had nothing to do, nowhere to be, there was nothing stopping us from anything. Ms. Freedom always knew the little things to say. Her touch seemed to sink inside my chest and stir everything up but I didn’t speed up or slow down. Instead I simply expanded to let Giddy ease inside my body. She was a great fit – she rode just below the skin and I knew that the rest of the trip home would bring nothing but amusement, beautiful impulses, secret smiles and bouncy steps.
Giddy and I were gonna have a fine spring stroll – just the two of us.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Mr. Odd Job Says
Where does the will to win come from? When did we learn that the ritualized combat of sport was acceptable? No, more than acceptable. Enjoyable. Desirable. Addictive.
Thus is recognized the animal lust for victory mollified into a competition addict by the rules of sport. Game on.
After he kicked me in the gut and the brass button on my patched corduroys flew open. Without even a cartoon lightning bolt, I transformed from a shy, grinning, thoughtful kid into an animal that reacted on a level that surprised and delighted and scared me. Time slowed as I processed sights and sounds and sensations efficiently, ruthlessly. Pain was there but it was a side issue, a prod to action more than a reminder of mortality.
So I charged at the source of the pain with a speed that didn't belong to the poor kid that got good grades. I caught his next kick. It hurt to absorb the impact, I think. It would probably leave a bruise but that was in a future that was inconsequential to the now. And now I had him, the bully with the crew cut hopping on one leg as I kept coming and brought him to the mowed grass of the front yard. He pushed at my face with his hands, a jagged nail scratching me under the eye and I kept coming until my hand was on his throat. I jerked his head forward and back, the soft thud of a fifth grade skull in the whisper brittle late fall grass barely heard. His eyes closed with the pain. When his face pinched and reddened from the strain of trying to breathe, trying to get away from defeat, get away from me, I felt a vicious joy. I would have growled or howled from the abandon of the victory but I'm not an animal.
A hard shove from a bystander knocked me off of him and I started to come down from the competitive high. I was winning a game that I hadn't ever won before. I knew I'd be chasing that transformation again. All I had to do was stick my nose in, pay the pain booth a toll of a bruise or two, and I would be a winner again.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Racquetball flickers
Flickers
The ball bounces and I vanish. Conscious awareness of my body ceases: when i reappear I am across the room reaching to make contact with ball.
Whap.
Relaxed now, I watch my partner track the ball. His head turns and he begins to move towards where he thinks it will end up. Bouncing on the balls of my feet I wait. I’m clear headed, aware of the contact of my feet with the floor. I ride each small hop, testing weight of the racket in my hand. I’m aware of the strength of my grip, every muscle in my legs, the set of my back. Concentrate. I hear him make contact. It’s my turn to anticipate the path of the blue ball.
Whap.
I blink out of existence. My legs push forward, my arm swings, my mind whirls to fast for me to keep up with - trying to make predictions and calculations. I’m in black out.
Whap.
The wall is suddenly rushing towards me and I turn to take the impact on the back of my shoulder while I orient myself. My eyes instantly search for the ball, my grip relaxing on the racket for a brief minute. As quickly as possible, I push off the wall and head toward the middle of the court, watching my opponent’s movements. His racket comes up lazily and taps the ball. I’d better start running.
Whap.
Silence. Eagerness. Determination. Hope.
Whap.
I snap back into a world of white walls with impact marks on them. The ball is arching over head and I hold my breath. Silently, I urge it towards the back wall – anticipating the satisfaction of seeing it make contact. The ceiling gets in the way and my careful plan is shattered; I stop bouncing as the ball changes it's trajectory and streaks towards the floor, half an inch from the wall. My shoulder drop, my racquet lowers, and I grunt. Dang it.
Reset.
The ball bounces and I vanish. Conscious awareness of my body ceases: when i reappear I am across the room reaching to make contact with ball.
Whap.
Relaxed now, I watch my partner track the ball. His head turns and he begins to move towards where he thinks it will end up. Bouncing on the balls of my feet I wait. I’m clear headed, aware of the contact of my feet with the floor. I ride each small hop, testing weight of the racket in my hand. I’m aware of the strength of my grip, every muscle in my legs, the set of my back. Concentrate. I hear him make contact. It’s my turn to anticipate the path of the blue ball.
Whap.
I blink out of existence. My legs push forward, my arm swings, my mind whirls to fast for me to keep up with - trying to make predictions and calculations. I’m in black out.
Whap.
The wall is suddenly rushing towards me and I turn to take the impact on the back of my shoulder while I orient myself. My eyes instantly search for the ball, my grip relaxing on the racket for a brief minute. As quickly as possible, I push off the wall and head toward the middle of the court, watching my opponent’s movements. His racket comes up lazily and taps the ball. I’d better start running.
Whap.
Silence. Eagerness. Determination. Hope.
Whap.
I snap back into a world of white walls with impact marks on them. The ball is arching over head and I hold my breath. Silently, I urge it towards the back wall – anticipating the satisfaction of seeing it make contact. The ceiling gets in the way and my careful plan is shattered; I stop bouncing as the ball changes it's trajectory and streaks towards the floor, half an inch from the wall. My shoulder drop, my racquet lowers, and I grunt. Dang it.
Reset.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Mr. Odd Job Says:
Translation is tricky and imprecise.
Roger Ebert has a new computer voice that translates his written text into something spoken so we can hear him. Some engineering wizards took hundreds of samples of his old voice, lost to cancer, and built the sound blocks that will allow him to speak again.
But somehow, I don't think Ebert will ever be completely happy with his new voice. I'm sure his gratitude is unending, but there will be times often enough when that computer translation of his text, itself a translation of Ebert's thought, will miss his intent. He'll formulate words, hear the alien strangeness of a machine with his voice repeat those words, and then find the spaces where the machine's voice -- his voice -- got it wrong. It will have messed up the emphasis. It will have lost the pause and or wry sarcasm or bored vocal shuffle that he heard in his head. And then he'll fight to find the words that communicate his feelings without being reliant on the context of human expression.
And that fight can't be won.
In the search for the proper collection of letters to communicate reality to someone else, we have to give up some of our meaning, just as Ebert has to give up some of his expression to the bytes and limitations of the marvel that gives him speech. We have to collect the words that match our experience closest and hope that we can find enough of a connection with the audience that they read those words and hear our voices and intent. Of course the audience will add something at times and miss something at times. But when the mesh occurs, something beautiful happens.
Communication is faith. Blogging is a prayer to humanity. Hear me, o reader, hear my voice and let your spirit merge with mine. Let my words touch you as your act of listening and translating has touched me. Let us reside in our world of cooperation for a moment so that we can all know that we are not alone. Amen.
Roger Ebert has a new computer voice that translates his written text into something spoken so we can hear him. Some engineering wizards took hundreds of samples of his old voice, lost to cancer, and built the sound blocks that will allow him to speak again.
But somehow, I don't think Ebert will ever be completely happy with his new voice. I'm sure his gratitude is unending, but there will be times often enough when that computer translation of his text, itself a translation of Ebert's thought, will miss his intent. He'll formulate words, hear the alien strangeness of a machine with his voice repeat those words, and then find the spaces where the machine's voice -- his voice -- got it wrong. It will have messed up the emphasis. It will have lost the pause and or wry sarcasm or bored vocal shuffle that he heard in his head. And then he'll fight to find the words that communicate his feelings without being reliant on the context of human expression.
And that fight can't be won.
In the search for the proper collection of letters to communicate reality to someone else, we have to give up some of our meaning, just as Ebert has to give up some of his expression to the bytes and limitations of the marvel that gives him speech. We have to collect the words that match our experience closest and hope that we can find enough of a connection with the audience that they read those words and hear our voices and intent. Of course the audience will add something at times and miss something at times. But when the mesh occurs, something beautiful happens.
Communication is faith. Blogging is a prayer to humanity. Hear me, o reader, hear my voice and let your spirit merge with mine. Let my words touch you as your act of listening and translating has touched me. Let us reside in our world of cooperation for a moment so that we can all know that we are not alone. Amen.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
In Translation
The desire to sift through images and solidify them into words does not constitute an ability to do so effectively. Words are not always effective translations for the actions and images around us. Nor is it always possible to push and mold the words into minor, faded representations of what we see without our eyes. Perhaps this is the starting point that we all need to run our hands over and understand.
Our experiences have different textures for us all. Hand one person a bitter memory and, with eyes blindfolded, they feel acidic juices that when tasted pucker their mouth shut. Another person may feel weeping clay and realize that it only needs a bit of time before they are able to mold something beautiful out of what used to be ugly. Still another person may run their hands through the memory and be met by course denim, scrapping and immobile. But that same person may choose to work with the memory, running water through it, soaping it up, drying it and beating the cloth with wizened hands – tanning the toughened memory with patience and attention. Soon, they have soft worn cotton. Soon, they have a cloth that anyone can touch and relish.
The one thing that we all share is an attempt to translate ourselves daily into a spoken and written language. We all stumble over words, trying to find the precise term that will convey the deepest meaning with the most clarity. We all are in translation. We all hope that our minds can translate quick enough and clear enough that our audience will understand what we so desperately want them to understand. Each person feels, not in words, but in stirrings and flashes that come with no letters. Each soul vibrates, curls inwards, glows colors never seen, hollows out, fills to over flowing. Each touch is not done in letters – no combination of the alphabet will ever feel the same sliding over our wrist. There is no formation of the tongue that can accurately shape our experience of breathing in and out in utter happiness and contentment.
We all, each of us, pour ourselves into translation. Trying to fit our daily shakes and shivers into words that let others know that we are scared – that we swell beyond our skin with happiness – that we feel quiet green filling our limbs with languid contentment.
We are all in translation. I only hope that some of us can get it right.
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