Sound. As I type to the hum of traffic, the cross-hatch of MTM's pen, the pulse of keys, I sob and wish sound weren't a thing.
I know people who are virtually deaf. I don't wish for that fate or mean to diminish their disability.
But I am waterboarded by the sound of my own voice. People want to hear me read my memoir.
Or they *think* they do.
They don't know a theater critic once eviscerated my speaking voice in a review. "Etched in acid," he crowed.
The Architect preferred white plates. No rims. Slick buggers, soapy and wet. A slice plowed her middle finger when she dropped one.
An ironic flip-off.
She saw blood and bone. Her meat and marrow.
Her axis tilted sideways, but she stayed upright.
Same as this morning.
She removed bandages and padding. Her non-football-loving Architect swaddled. A lop-sided linebacker.
Underneath, she found chewed meat, sealed with tape and gut. Because she loves the Architect, she’s still swallowing bile. Smiling. Holding his good hand.
I get tired of MTM's package. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like to unwrap things as much as the next girl......even when I know what's inside.
Especially when I know what's inside.
I don't like surprises.
But MTM and his package........how do I type this?
When does a girl become a woman? Develop those fabled feminine wiles? Is it during wide-eyed, chub-cheeked infanthood? Her inaugural surf of the red wave? Maybe it happens the first time she, um...........logs her First Time. Or maybe it's the first time she enjoys it.
You don't have to spend much time around here to figure out I have an interest in history. People don't change much, do they? We complain about the salaciousness of today's news media, but our third President, Thomas Jefferson, actually purchased entire news outlets to spew venom at his political enemies, all hidden behind the quills of reporters who repackaged his words as their own.
Whenever I visit Pon Pon Chapel of Ease, I feel closer to our flawed Founders.