Oct 21 25
To me
I was conceived and then gestated for 9 months, give or take a few days. Occasionally I am hit by the reminiscence of what it was like to have been in the womb. A dull vision will cross the back of my mind of a warm blood-red encasing me in every direction, a mucosal sheath surrounding me1.
I don’t remember being born, nor do I remember my toddler years. My mother tells me my first word was “Daddy,” though she is mistaken- I was merely babbling in the manner of infants during the critical period of language acquisition. My true and actual first word was “Bible,” which I said in the middle of a relative’s communion, repeating after the pastor spoke the word first. The pastor took my babbling for a miraculous intervention unto a sinless babe, and father snatched me up aloft, showing the congregation the exciting evidence of the immanent presence of Our Lord, much to the embarrassment of my mother.
I never knew my father, though its implausible that I never had one.
The years following my first words were uneventful- the development of language faculties, then agency, then abstract reasoning, then curiosity and sexual desire. That part of my life would only be interesting to someone interested generally in the biological, social, and psychological development of a child. In all matters it was normal and regular.
My adolescence similarly isn’t worth remarking on. It felt to me, at the time, like a unique ordeal, but I have since learned that it had the trademarks of a standard puberty with all the accompanying thoughts, feelings, and events. These felt treacherous and untrod before, but I know now that they are quite quotidian.
Young adulthood similarly was filled with many events which, at the time, I would call formative. I would call them formative now still, if I wasn’t so worried about elevating them above their proper stature as the typical milestones of a young man’s life. Still, it’s incorrect to say they did not form me, and were thus ‘formative.’
This continued on for a while in this manner until the other day, when I had a moment of explosive emotion. This recent emotional incontinence is still with me- I still feel it as a vertiginous haze. I am unable to focus on anything for more than a couple seconds- maybe 120 to 160- before I am brought back against my will to the event in question.
The event is as follows:
I was using my computer to browse some nonconsequential article or other, or perhaps playing video games on it, or perhaps watching pornography or a television show, when all of the sudden the silence which was before only punctuated by the sounds coming from my laptop was suddenly ripped in two by the brassy din of a car horn being absolutely honked to its utmost. A piercing noise, as one would expect from a noisemaker designed for maximum attention (such as the horn of a car is, being fundamentally designed for use solely to alert others of an emergency). This was not the first car horn I had heard, nor do I expect it to be the last, but in that moment I was called from my article, or video game, or pornography, or television show, to take action.
I stormed alert from my seat and was then in turn standing and next stomping out my inner front door, and then through my vestibule, and then out from my outer front door which I threw open like a black hatted cowboy entering the saloon he expects to meet his death at in a western movie2.
I continued my warpath down my local street to the arterial road which seemed to be the source of the noise.
This street near my house is continuously the source of commotion, which I generally consider to be one of the features of living in a medium density area of a city. Ordinarily I am not one to be concomitant with this discharge of effluvient noise and inertia, but on this fateful yesterday I found it necessary to enter the fray.
I stomped the asphalt now subsumed within this flow, feeling myself become joined with the general tendency of life to continue forward on the path it is on. Only in retrospect do I see how alive I was in this moment, spurned to enact my will upon the status quo which heretofore remained unceasingly static3.
There I was, against all odds and against all force of habit standing against the antisocial forces which had gathered to bother me. Rather I was walking against them- walking towards them in fact. Walking towards them to do something! My chest was trumpeted outward in confidence. My chin was held up- my eyes squarely looking forward to greet my destiny.
My capacity for action being at its maximum, the passage of time did not register to me. I was at next breath looking upon a city bus’s left front window. Therein was a bus driver. He was honking. The noise from this thing seemed to me perverse when seeing how little effort was exerted in pushing against the wheel- pressing his little hand against the button, completing the circuit, allowing electrons to flow to and enervate the motor, which, in its own turn, oscillated the metal diaphragm at rapid enough speed to create the audible honking pitch which had brought me to this moment.
Hey!
I said to the bus bastard.
HOOOOOOOOOOOONK
Was all I received in return- actually- I did not even receive this, for the bus driver did not notice that I was speaking, and was merely continuing his heretofore action.
HEY!
I was shouting now, which is unlike my typical behavior. I was pushing air through my vocal cords at a totally unaccustomed pressure. Now the driver noticed me.
What do you want?
I demanded he tell me what the hell he was doing. What was the meaning of all this racket? Why was he sending forth repeated and sustained pitches4 in all directions?
I demanded of him to stop at once this commotion. Surely there were children in the neighborhood, and surely they were covering their ears against this din, helplessly bowlegged and writhing on the ground in great pain for the littleness of their ears and the bigness of the noise.
He explained to me that he was merely trying to summon the attention of the owner of the Honda CR-V which was double-parked in the street right in front of his. The driver reached out his arm. I noticed the pudge surrounding his watch. He was a bit fat, though probably less fat than the median American, but with a habit of clasping his watch too tight, which accentuated the appearance of his fatness. I followed his arm down and saw where his outstretched fingers were indicating. A Honda CR-V, as he had mentioned.
This isn’t the bus route, are you sure it is not you who are lost?
The driver seemed to find this an exhausting question. He sighed and began to explain to me that this was the temporary route which the bus was taking for the time being. He explained that the city was responding to consistent calls about a smell which resembled gas along the typical bus route. He described the schedule of inspection, during which the street would have to be excavated along the bus lane, which necessitated a temporary measure to get the people who had become accustomed to the normal workings of the bus route to and from the places they had become accustomed to getting to and from. He explained that letters had been sent to everyone within two blocks of the bus route warning of this development. Signs had been posted on the old bus route as well as the new one which explained the situation, the timeframe, and gave sources to research more details as needed. Surely, he said, I had received them. Now he indicated behind him to his cargo, which consisted of one surly looking man seated in the back and some sort of disabled person strapped with their chair to the left side of the bus for safekeeping. They both looked at me blankly. I suppose this was his way of explaining this all in a way that would satisfy me. The driver stopped speaking to me and went back to honking.
HOOONK
I once again demanded he stop. Ceasing his honking, he turned and gave me a look of disbelief and unbelieving which said to me that he couldn’t understand how I, even with the information which he had given me, could blame this poor individual for his own choice to continue honking.
I am safely wedged in the reformist space snuggly between social democrat and democratic socialist5, politically speaking. This background informs me that of course this mere proletariat bus driver is not really at fault in this instance. He is merely the outermost layer of a deep and wide system of interlocking private and public apparatuses which define our built urban environment. My problem was surely caused more fundamentally by the way the bus route was rerouted, and of course with whoever first fabricated the now-leaking gas pipes which necessitated the bus route to be adjusted to begin with. Furthermore, wouldn’t it be more correct to say that my present problem was caused by the over-reliance on cars, the lack of suitable public transit alternatives, which pushed this man to feel the need to park in the middle of this arterial road to begin with. My problem perhaps began with the planning6 of the city, built as it was on land stolen from the Lanape, and perhaps therefore it lies most squarely with the counter-reformation in Englad, the Netherlands, and later Germany which originally pushed the puritans off of their continent towards the eastern coast of the United States. To blame for this at its deepest root of course must be Man’s inability to coexist, which is a consequence perhaps of the evolutionary pressures which led the human animal to have the makeup he does at all- and for this perhaps my real problem was with the protozoa7 which split off from its unicellular predecessor and began the inevitable path towards becoming a creature which honks the horn of a large bus incessantly near my apartment window. I considered all of this, attempting to delineate exactly who or what I was angry with. My mind flitted rapidly about at all of these realities, and I attempted to distribute my anger appropriately to all of them, but it would not conform to a rational shape. My anger, at once soft, amorphous, marked by significant grooves and divots, and at the same time impliable, resistant to deformation, stubborn, staying fixed at a space right before me at the tip of my nose.
The driver continued to look at me with a hint of dumb confusion. He turned his gaze back to the front windshield. My anger, something I was still considering in three dimensional geometric grounds, did not follow his gaze forward. My anger pulsed slowly, sometimes fully containing my field of vision within its volume, sometimes shrinking to a small spheroid. Looking closely at it revealed a mysterious and broad landscape. It was a pure thing, and it was held by its own weight and logic. It demanded nothing other than its own presence.
The driver began honking with fresh vigor.
HOOOOONK
And I, a mere second after he began, started up:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
In a continuous and sustained effort I shouted and shouted and shouted. Under the din of the honking my voice lacked full clarity, but nonetheless the driver took his hand off of the steering wheel and asked,
Bro, whats the matter with you?
This was not my concern- after only a brief pause to breath I began again:
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!
I became present in the noise I was creating- almost my full attention at the sound I was creating just in front of my mouth. I stayed like this for a long while, with a varied cycle of screaming, pausing, breathing, screaming, and so on. A man came out to his Honda CR-V and drove off. The bus, now with its path freed, carried on its route. Passers-by walked along the road and glanced at me with a variety of responses. A pair of police officers walked by and asked me what was wrong, got up close to me and tried to get me to stop, but gave up and continued on8. I lost any semblance of the tracking of time, shouting as I was. By the time I was through it was dark and there was no one around. In one moment I was shouting, and the next I was finished. My anger, or whatever it was, had receded into a smooth, glossy black sphere. It was right at the tip of my nose extending forward into my periphery and coexisting with half of my brain. I stood for a bit and turned sharply around, walking back to my home. I entered through my outer front door, walked through my vestibule, and entered my apartment through my inner front door. I thought of returning to my inconsequential article, video game, pornography or television show- whatever it had been- but it held no interest to me. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for a bit. I turned over and stared at the corner of my wall. I thought it would be better to have more decorations on my walls, but I have always found it hard to choose something to commit to hanging. It’s difficult to find something one would like to look at indefinitely. I have found whenever I have found a flat hangable thing I might put on one of my walls, I am seldom able to convince myself to buy it. I imagine myself in the future, looking at this print or painting or lithograph or whatever, and am absolutely unable to conclude what it is I will feel about it in perpetuity. I decide it isn’t really worth the risk. The unfortunate consequence is that most of my walls are bare.
I went to sleep with a bit of self inflicted tinnitus. Upon awaking I found that my hearing had cleared.
I have been told this is impossible. As early as Freud those studying childhood development have observed what the aforementioned psychological pioneer termed infantile amnesia. Sigmund figured we lose all memories before a certain age as a protective mechanism against the excesses of id, which develop far more rapidly than the maturation of our ego. More contemporary science says it has to do with having so many neural pathways as infants, or something like that.
I think its the black hat who is the protagonist who might expect but not ultimately meet his demise in these sorts of films. I admit I have only seen revisionist westerns, which for all I know might switch the color of the hats as one of their local revisions of the genre.
I apologize for the redundancy within “status… static” – i.e., status erat statum. I speak not Latin but English. The sentence in English gives flavors of meaning which have developed within the words in their current use. I also am at the moment quite overcome with the need to impart my experiences herein, so have little time for editing and thesauruses, thesauratum, or thesaurii. I finally also consider myself fully against linguistic prescriptivism, and so am leaving this sentence unedited.
The car horn in question actually produces two pitches, in the typical arrangement of car horns- this one being closest to the musical pitch E (corresponding to something like 330hz) with a duller and quieter tone of a G# (something around 415hz) mixed in along with it, making it a Major third interval. No doubt this is to make it more pleasant and “musical,” though it is certainly not musical or pleasant to my ear.
My parents before me were good liberal Democrats. Both pairs of their parents were vaguely conservative Republicans, who voted primarily out of concern for their relatively prodigious wealth. I have decided to continue the leftward generational drift at the same pace as I understand it to have been established by my ancestry.
Surely the distal cause of this aberrant and abhorrent honking must be Robert Moses, who I have come to learn is the arch nemesis of all right-thinking and upstanding urbanites of New York, at least in matters of buses, cars, transits, roads etc. Surely in the voluminous pages of The Power Broker, which I own but have not had a chance to read, one can find the first-cause of my troubles with this bus.
Forgive my imprecise terminology, a result of my heightened emotions. In reality the first multicellular (eukaryotic) organism is believed to have split off from the single celled lineages (the prokaryotes) roughly 4 billion years ago in a mysterious incident. The protozoa, to be clear, is itself a eukaryote.
The inaction of the police, while perhaps to my benefit in this specific instance, informs some of my aforementioned Democratic Socialist/Social Democrat political opinions towards the reformation of the justice aspect of state function.