suffering the heat

It’s 96? It’s supposed to be 96. Degrees. Outside.

Does that confuse people on the other system? Probably not by now. People must hate the United States, for many reasons, but mainly for its overexposure. That’s not the correct use of that word, is it? For a Word Major, I’m awful at words.

You can’t watch a movie without being reminded of the United States. You can’t watch the news, either…again, for many reasons.

I hate the news.

Sometimes I feel like people who aren’t depressed are the real crazy ones. How could you watch the news—any news—and blink and shrug and go about your day? How can you just know that there is so much suffering—

This is why I have a problem with “God,” anyway. And this is so typical, I know, such originality coming from good ol’Introvert Playground. But again, again, again, how could a God allow so much suffering?

I hate knowing that one day I will get a papercut and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Life is full of papercuts, and bee stings, and stubbed toes, and broken hearts, and funerals, and shampoo in the eyes and splinters in the thumbs and dead people taking up all the slots on TV.

Television is suffering. Even the fake stuff, the shows and movies, they’re all about suffering. Even comedy is about suffering. It’s like we know we live in the gallows but only the depressed people feel like talking about the elephant in the room. And then everyone gets mad at them for doing so.

“What can be done? Just don’t think about it.”

Okay. I won’t think about the world. But can I think about myself, and all the disappointments I can’t prevent for myself? Failures, rejections, heartbreak?

How does any girl live past thirteen? She feels the pain of a menstrual cycle for the first time and is so happy. It’s the second month that it sinks in. It is going to hurt this bad for so-and-so days every month for forty years. It’s a prison sentence.

I feel trapped by my body. It is strange and alien to me, a vessel to hold my pain.

The Breath of a Church Organ

Today I conducted an interview from inside a church organ. The man who restored the 130+ year old organ with his father explained how the air flowed through the reservoir and into the pipes. We sat in a space below and behind these pipes, hidden from view, studying the enormous inner workings of the beautiful instrument. His father sat at the console, pressed the keys, and I was instantly surrounded by music.

Inside the womb of the organ, I could see the whole thing breathe as it created the sound that filled the church. The reservoir was like a lung, sucking in pressurized air and deflating as it exhaled into the pipes. The pipes—over a thousand of them—were like long metallic necks, stretching up like herons.

I could have stayed there forever. I probably would have gone deaf eventually, but honestly, I could have stayed there forever. I wrote notes leaning on the reservoir, and it was like my notebook was floating. The wall behind me vibrated with the lower pipes. The chimes, dangling from the opposite wall, sang along with the mingling chords. I could see it all happening. I could hear it all happening. It was alive, and so was I.

On the way home, singing to the radio, I thought about how my body was like an organ. I had lungs pushing air out my throat, making my vocal chords vibrate and sing. An organ is like a part of the body. Perhaps that’s why it’s called an “organ.”