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The Sound And The Fury

Posted Nov 29 2008 12:20pm

The Sound And The Fury

There is quiet inside my head. A quiet forced this afternoon and fed by a nap and an Ambien, which understood I did not need to laugh or swear or imagine myself as Venus on the shell. I needed to sink into that quiet, and sink into that detatchment, and not question or break apart my aloofment. Not then. My world has no sleep at times, but my defenses knew in order in catch my breath, they needed to step away.

Sometimes I think that I'm bigger than the sound. When the sound rushes in I clasp my hands to my ears and instead of stepping back I charge forwards, towards more sounds, towards tattoos and nose rings and bakeries filled with wooshing heat.

Sometimes when the sound rushes in I leave my hands at my side, and I listen, and the woosh becomes a melody and the clang becomes a rhythm.

On the train today the sound came, a sound I tempered with Arcade Fire, a sound I tempered while humming about planes crashing into buildings two by two. I knew I was wrong in my head and my reasons would become clear. My warnings aren't red streaks coming from a wound or a sharp recoil from pain. My warnings are a detachment, a vision from outside my head, an observation and a smirk. They tell me I might not be safe, and my momma is off her meds, and there's a bottle hidden in a bathroom, and a surgeon to face, and a decision to make, and a person to love, and a reason to be hurt. Not by red streaking wounds but by a brain that stops to listen to the sound, and fingers to uncurl, and jokes that stop cracking.

Sometimes the detatchment serves a purpose. My fight or flight comes in silence, and removal, and then a fast and furious race to reclaim and rebuild. A shock and awe of blue glasses and red hair and reams of words surrounded by cupcakes and frangipane tarts and theater reviews. A shock of a walk through the Ile-De-Cite and framboise ice cream overlooking the Seine and small middle eastern psychics on a rainy, pebble hewn beach on the English Channel. The Awe of a carefully placed IV and a swollen tongue and a hallucination of birthdays come and gone and a boy I loved completely who was a dangerous beast and left me cupping my insides in my hands and backing away with my head down when what I am known for and cheered for is usually my leap to a jugular with my own fangs bared.

I do better, at times, than before. I can see the sounds and silence coming and I know they were friend, a comfort, a survival. I allow them that, I recognize that they were needed. But they served to well. They pushed A from my life when it turned into a furious race to redefine. They pushed G from my life when my cool demeanor and cracking jokes were mistaken for comfort, when it was really a way to test the water instead. And because my mind, my brain that doesn't sleep and is thinking thinking thinking, needs so much to have a connect so my body can have a connect and my heart can have a connect, because it knows it can detatch and save the rest of me the trouble, it wants to do that now.

So I found myself with Arcade Fire in my ears and I breathed and looked forward. My body has a connect because my brain had one. Safety. Good.

Rewind.

Reshock

Awe

Why am I having my fight/flight.

I was ok before. After. Detach and nap. Awake.

He took me to the bed he sleeps in with her, this confusing relationship, this puzzle harder to extracate than it was to put together. I know I am not his love, but I am in the moment, and I am present, and I can taste his lips on mine. But I don't think it's after until I know, or before, but at some point where I choose not to process it, because detatchment has been on vacation. It deserved a break. It's been a long ride.

But he has me, his lover, in their bed. His best friend, his former fiance, whom he seeks for comfort and she the same. She knows I am there. Their relationship is there own, the language and nuance and understanding and history. But I am there. In her bed. In his bed. And suddenly on this train, as I hear " you were always such a sensitive child" in the lyrics of my song the detatchment and the sound and the fury roll in because now at this moment I feel like a lover. Not a connect. Not a safe place. A bawdy joke cracking blue glasses cynic.

And the connect stretches out thin, because he is in her house and I was in her bed. And it pulls tight and taught and starts to fray. I feel the smirk pulling up the corner or my lip, less a lover and more a whore. And it allows my brain to disconnect abit and the racing feelings between my legs quiet. Familiar. It's letting go. Because if it can let go, my heart will not bat eyelashes and look for a hand to hold. It will light up a Camel, and lean non chalantley against a wall, and it will be bigger than the sound as it blows rings of smokes, and throws witty banter about.

I can call and I do, and I can warn I am protective and aloof, because this is what I do. But I can't say what the cause is until I talk to M. And she hears it's not because there were errands to run, though we both thought that. She has witnessed this all before, my eyes towards the horizon as I talk of things like they are of no consequence. So I was in a bed where I didn't belong. I don't need to belong. I don't want to belong. I just want to rediscover my body, M. I want to be in the present.

But she's seen me cupping my insides in my hand before. And she's gentle, and I can peel back some of the aloofness because I have the awreness and I can tell her that maybe this time I can't be in the present because now I feel I must protect. I can tell him this, because he isn't one I want to protect myself from, because he is kind, and he is whole, and he would hold my hand.

But what hurts is he would hold it in her bed. And she is his connect. And I may just be a lover. And I don't know if that is a role I want to step into.

So I write, because that's what I do. Writing lays no blame because it's a process of questioning and my style is one of self exploration. This one, I think, is out of my hands. I can do my best not to sabotage. But now I must also remember that my detachment serves a purpose.

I cannot be a lover unless I feel safe. And something about all this makes me question my safety.

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