I don’t write much anymore. It used to be something I enjoyed quite a bit. From earliest elementary school I would sit with pad and pencil, unraveling the hidden plotlines inside myself--engaging in little journeys of self-discovery while other kids wasted their time with basketball. But I don’t write much anymore. Like a great love I’ve lost my passion for: the sinewy lines, shadowy curves, and half-glimpsed folds seem all-too familiar. It all seems so mechanical and distant these days: no longer a desperate passionate fumbling for unknown pleasures in darkened rooms, it now feels more like sitting isolated before a window watching the pleasure of others.
I once heard a saying, “if you’re bored then you must be boring too,” and I am most definitely bored. There may not be a larger sin in a modern Ameri-tainment culture than being boring.
So there I am: a bored sinner, yawning at my own transgressions.
One morning in a typical stupor—eyes all baggy, hair a mess, and breath atrocious—I ran the tub. The bathroom was filthy, just like it was yesterday. Unwilling to muster the energy to clean it, I simply ran the tub and blamed whoever my roommate might have been at the time. How dare they force me to live in my own filth. I ran the tub until the water almost touched the ceramic lip and then threw in some Mr. Bubbles just for Grape-flavored kicks. Now tiny mountains built out of bubbles and clouds were stacked high above the top of the tub, the edge of this little soapy world I had created.
The roommate was gone so I quickly ran out to my room wrapped in a towel and threw on an old-time hits album of ‘Motown greats’ Martha and the Vandellas. I dropped the needle on the second to last track. Hearing that glorious pop and crackle, I quickly ran back to the bathroom leaving the door open so I could listen to “Heat Wave” in the tub. It made me happy sometimes. I dove in, smashing that tranquil soapy mountain-scape to bits and spilling warm water over the edge of the world. I wait patiently for a lesser song to finish. As soon as I heard the opening piano shuffle I smiled a little and hummed the tune, doing a naked little dance in the tub with a trail of bubbles hanging off my face like
The song had never failed to cheer me up, a least a little. It seemed that now the happier the song got, the more alienated I felt. Oh Martha baby, can you tell me what’s wrong with me? I continued staring at my own feet peaking out from the water and softly mouthed the line, “Is this the way love’s supposed to be?”
Martha had shouted it in a passionate frenzy, like a heatwave of course, but my voice just echoed softly in the tiled bathroom. The needle lifted as the song ended and I was left alone again. Sitting in a soapy tub--in a dirty bathroom, in an empty apartment where I spent far too much of my time seeing if Martha could cheer me up--I asked the question again, “Is this the way love’s supposed to be?” All I got back was an echo.
I ducked my head under the water and its warmth enveloped me. I stayed down as long as I could before I ran out of breath. I tried again. This time I opened my eyes, and saw only my face reverse-reflected on the underside of the water. The reflection was surrounded by intangible white fluffs that above looked like bubble mountains but down here just looked like magic. I looking at myself inverted and I wondered if this was what my reflection felt like staring at me from out of the bathroom mirror.
I noticed a faint hum buzzing in my ears that I had never heard before. It may have been a leftover from the rather boring concert I had attended alone three days before; or maybe it had always been hiding there in my ears and I’d just never allowed myself to be so quiet that I could hear it. It was a constant steady tone, definitely hitting a sustained note. Due to my lack of knowledge, I just made it up … C-flat maybe? Sure, that sounds good, my rippling reflection seemed to nod at me.
As I continued to listen to the unnatural hum in my ears, it began to get louder and louder, filling up my entire sensory field until it seemed to be all that existed. Was I going deaf? Was I going blind? All I could see or hear or feel was this ever-expanding C-flat. But then I realized I could hear something else as well. Deep below the hum was a constant thump, a steady rhythm. It was my heart beating and it too seemed to get louder and more intense the longer I focused on it. I suddenly realized what was happening, what I was listening to: I had a swelling and contracting note and an endless life-giving rhythm. My body was making ambient music. Brian Eno would be so proud of me.
I thought to myself, This must be what it’s like in the womb. Perfectly enveloped. I tried to imagine how much more interesting the bodymusic would be inside a mother, with two hums harmonizing against and around each other and two heartbeats cutting across each other, providing constantly sychopated polyrhythms. It could be beautiful. I repeated the question in my mind, “Is this the way love’s supposed to be?” I still received no answer, but there no echo this time either.
I realized I hadn’t come up for air in quite a while. My lungs began to burn. The music sped up violently, unexpectedly jolted from 33 rpm’s to 45. My mirror self looked panicked and in desperation I tried to merge with him, pushing my head up and through his. I left my artificial womb in a sick kind of birth and came up gasping for air. My face was grey. I dove back down and tried to find it again but it was all wrong, the tone wasn’t loud enough, the rhythm was too fast, the tub too small, and the reflection looked ashen and ghostly. I wondered what it was that I had seen … or felt, or whatever it was that happened to me. I had no answer, it was just some rare undiscovered area of beauty hidden inside myself--something that had always been inside me and probably still was. I just couldn’t ever find it again.
I’ve attempted to explain it, preserve it in print. It’s a poor substitute though, and as I said, I don’t write much anymore.
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