I’m thinking about a bunch of things as the dryer sounds like a heartbeat with every rotation. And maybe that’s what the Earth sounds like each time the planet travels around the sun. The astronauts never said anything about it; however, I’m not sure anyone’s asked them. If they did, we would know. The same way scientists have studied the songs of whales, identified codas from families who routinely dive together in the cold deep. It would make sense for the world to sing on its tripped axis, but how would it sound? Classical? Blues? Jazz? Would we need to launch a microphone in space and swing from a star?
Or the other thing writers talk about in classrooms and online Zoom sessions, a word, a prompt that sparks inspiration, a key to explore an otherwise unexplored landscape, maybe a phrase like not having a menstrual period for 30 years; I’m remembering those check marks on my calendar, and how, when the blood of my body encountered a new latticework, the zipping of hummingbirds unlaced me.
And I wonder how, I wonder how we can hold our own in this crazy world that has pinned and paper clipped us, butterflies on a pasteboard, with a note to self: we will get through this. And I think of my life as being jammed into cubicles, its own lock down, a loss of personal freedom. Held fast in ways that had nothing to do with masks or social distancing. That train has whistled and gone. But there is a freedom in coming to terms with things, the slow dancing, the two-stepping until it’s time for the ball. The glittering ball that drops and hangs over my head. Total white-out.
Or if you prefer choice #2:
Maybe the Earth sounds like my dryer each time it completes a rotation. The astronauts never mentioned it; if they did, we would know. The way scientists have studied whale songs, identified codas from families who dive in the cold winter’s deep. The world sings on a tripped axis, but how does it sound? Classical? Blues? Jazz? Launch a microphone and swing from a star? A prompt that sparks inspiration, maybe a phrase, not having a menstrual period for 30 years, remembering my own check marks on the calendar, and how, when the blood of my body encountered a new latticework, the zipping of hummingbirds unlaced me. I wonder, I wonder how we can hold our own in this crazy world that has pinned and paper clipped us, butterflies on a pasteboard with a note to self: we will get through this. But there’s freedom in a coming to terms with things, the slow dancing, the two-stepping in silence until it’s time for the ball. The glittering ball that hangs over my head. The total white-out.