I was thinking about Virginia Woolf yesterday. I had just brushed my teeth and was scooping cat chods into a Schnuck’s bag when, “We are the words. We are the music” came to mind. I didn’t know what to make of it, that ridiculous juxtaposition of things.
And I knew even less last night after I’d finished having an experience I’d never had before.
“Helloooo, Willy!” I was going west on the highway. And he, my son, was technically heading east. But the traffic on his side was at a standstill, and on mine it was going slow.
That’s because there were things to see: the air in the dusk was interesting with blue and red light. There was a car (his) perpendicular to the direction of traffic, and a boy (mine) standing in the center lane beside it.
“I’m here, Willy,” I shouted again, voice lost to the crash of doom on rocks.
“Mum!” he shouted across the distance, directing me with a couple of runway wands to the next exit. I didn’t need ‘em.
There were some fun parts. It was fun to scoot down the hard shoulder and park up on a dusty, less-traveled triangle between the on-ramp and the inside lane. It was fun to watch the firetruck – ‘music’ blaring – thread toward us, and some smiley firemen spilling out. It was fun to have a whole new aspect on things: highway signs seen from behind – the anarchy, the thrilling abandonment of all usual rules
But the person who hit Willy going 70, whose car now barely looked like one, had two little girls in the backseat. It wasn’t exactly ‘fun’ seeing all three of them get out and walk to the side of the road. But, boy, it felt good.
So, Virginia, if I am the words, what am I when – like now – I’m lost for them? When all I can come up with is something like this: It could have been worse?
It’s true, of course, but they don’t seem to do justice to the scream inside, the thump of adrenaline, the death metal which plays out in my tissues and bones.
“Emotions reside in the body,” is what Pat used to say. And I didn’t know what she was talking about. Emotions, last I checked, were thoughts, and thoughts can be described. But beyond It could have been worse, I can’t describe these.
So our ‘music’ (perhaps Woolf was meaning?) is truer, gets closer. There’s a corporeal beat to things like fear, and it isn’t just the heart which bops or the brain which jitters. That brush with calamity dusts every part of me.
AB - 20.01.24
Oh wow yikes, glad everyone is standing & walking, hope you are not all too shaken. I enjoyed the lead up to it & your reaction if I wasn't thinking about it too hard.