Listening to Gil Scott Heron reimagined by Makaya McCraven. There’s a chance my sisters warnings were right. There’s a chance I am depressed. There’s a chance this is permanent. As my neck and shoulders begin their process of realignment my hips open their mouths again, scream again, still me, again.
I signed up for this class on the poetics of intimacy because I lack the ability to write intimacy and somehow I am surprised that I am unable to do what is asked of me there. For a week I have wrestled with the prompt, I have fed it tasty treats,
I have offered it sunlight,
given it air,
turned it inside out,
then translated the translation,
then translated that to Spanish
and translated THAT homophonically
back to English
and I’m still stuck. So I’m sitting in the bathroom, hot water running. I’ve deleted all the social media apps. I’ve deleted all the social media apps. I’ve deleted all the social media apps. I went for a walk as far as my hips would let me walk—which is to say, I’m sitting in the bathroom, feet on the tub to take pressure off my spine, not quite steam filling the air (need to call the plumber), watching the clock carry me closer to the threshold of work, listening to Gil Scott Heron poet on music. Now I’m four minutes late to work and trying to find an ounce of care that doesn’t sprout from a debt. Which I guess is sort of what this prompt is asking me to do: to observe myself without judgement. To care with abandon.
That shouldn’t make you burst into tears. Or maybe it should. Maybe the problem is always assuming your reaction is wrong, Jeni (clearly *I* don’t know).
Gil is laughing right now, he’s saying, “I play piano.”