Jazz
Let the writer take up surgery - William FaulknerI wake up slowly. I do not reach for anything. It’s a stillness that would have been uncomfortable in the past but now, I’m all eased into it. All pressed into it. I’ll take the quiet hours of my morning; I’ll take the quiet hours of all my days. I talk to myself as much as possible, although that isn’t new. What is new is the awareness, the way I catch myself negotiating with myself. I’ve learned to laugh through it. A new habit is rubbing the back of my hands or my hands crisscrossed over my chest, tapping both shoulders. Like another hand would. The gesture is tender and for that, I am grateful. My house mate plays his jazz loud. It was hard at first, the beautiful sound breaking my quiet and now, there’s a music that comes on and stays in my head forever. What is it we call a new normal? A pattern that settles, regardless of our resistance. We make ourselves believe we accept the change, and that way, nothing feels imposed, forced down on us against our will.
My house mate practices mindfulness. Or yoga. Or something that has him stretching on a mat in the living room, out in the open, twisting his arms. Every time I pass by to the kitchen or the bathroom, I wonder, should I look up or down at my feet. Should I see if his eyes are closed, if his meditation stops because of me. Because of an interruption. More than wanting to avert my gaze, I want to be so small I draw no attention. So small you hardly see me turning my doorknob, my hands trembling. Once my house mate said, “I don’t want to be rude or pry into anything, but do you really struggle with this anxiety?” He pries into a world. A globe of wound. I want to say, “What do you think?” But I don’t, I nod my head and it feels so heavy I think my neck will break. There are so many things I do not say. There are so many things I leave said by others to me, for me and about me, that I don’t refute, don’t reject. Ocean Vuong says it’s okay if people think you’re a fool, because then they’ll tell you everything about them. “Nobody hides themselves from a fool.” I know many selves and still discovering mine.
In a game of Would You Rather, they say: Would you rather find a cure for cancer or find the love of your life. Cure for cancer, I say, in a heartbeat, without thinking. Laughter pulls from my phone speaker, settles around me like a cloud. They want to know if I’m serious. They say, but there’ll be more diseases. They say, the loves of their lives. I’m quiet. I have a sheepish smile I use for all occasions of hurt. I look like a fool way too many times than I should. The laughter fills and fills, and I sit in it. I know a story about cancer that drives me a little insane every day. Love is still a window I peer into and draw back; I have guilt from all the men I’ve left behind. I tell myself it’s just a game. It’s just a game. Breathe. But my mind, it’s like a factory, a machine that spins and spins. A maddening care. Every communication is a project and I work out its process. I think of what I should have said, how I should have said it, what I should have done, and how I should have done it. But I can never go back and so I sit in my room, jazz floating outside my door, dig my toes into the wood floor as the madness orbits around me. I hold my head in my hands. Curl my body so tight my knees kiss my forehead. A posture of desperation is also a posture of surrender.
I don't want to stop people from being who they are. I want to stop myself from making everything about everything.
There is a sign in front of my window that says All is Well. It makes me happy, even if it isn’t always true.
Yesterday, on a phone call, I tell my best friend “There’s a labor that comes with speaking, that comes with recalling that I never seem to have the strength for.” I had promised to tell her about something, and I had gone days without mentioning it. On the phone with my mother, she says they should have taken a photograph with me at the airport. I smile my sheepish smile. And then she says my brother should edit a photograph and insert my image in there, with them. It makes me laugh hard. There are no interpretations to this reaction. In a video call with my friends, we laugh about my cheeks, my growing body. We laugh about my absent-mindedness. We laugh about the distance. On the phone with my brother, we talk about ulcer and work and his anger. My brother never talks about his emotions; I lean in, take the call off speaker and press the phone against my ear. A vibration in his voice. He doesn’t say it, but I know he wished he was far, far from home. I lie. He says it. He says it clearly and it rings in my ear like a bell. Neither of us are ashamed about this intention. Life with the people I love and fight to love is on the screen and over phone lines, blurry faces and voices so distant I miss half the things said.The goodness of my days. My landlord plants a small library in front of the house. I walk out just to see it. This will be one of the few times I step out of the building.
I have an ukulele from Grandma Amy I can’t play. YouTube tutorials are hard. I send a long voice note to Sandra, interpreting a text from my ex-boyfriend. She accepts my analysis. I am right to think the way I think. I am allowed to feel the way I feel. Susan tells me to watch the movie Parasite, says I’ll love it. Kim drives me to New Port beach and gets me pizza. Pepperoni and sausages. We sit and talk and watch the water. Lisa brings me books and I tell her, every single person that passes by this window is white. She smiles a sad smile and tells me she’ll hug me on May 1st, the virus should be all gone by then. I am counting down to this. Jenny makes chicken fajitas. In her text, she explains: “like chicken with onions and bell peppers.” I still think America is a strange country. I listen to Justin Bieber’s Confirmation. I read Anne Michaels. She said- One can look deeply for meaning or invent it. I rub the back of my hands. I sing myself to wholeness. I fold and refold my clothes. I anchor myself on God, His mighty hands. I clear my desk to write. I bury my phone under a pillow for hours. I lay my bed just as I’m about to lie in it. The world falls silent one more time. All the noise is inside of me. Except the jazz.