Look what I found in the freezer.
Sausage and cabbage. That's what it tastes like.
A friend called today within the Denver containment sphere and he said that Cheryl asked how I am doing as she does every time and the guy goes, "Hmm. I don't know."
Hadn't seen him in a year.
He said that Cheryl always asks about me.
I only met her three times.
Over twenty years ago.
The first time we were at Elitch Gardens and we had the best spontaneous date. Right off we found ourselves sitting in teacups. They're not so innocent. They whip around. I started singing "Whip it." We sang it together throughout the ride and thereafter, it was the song for the night, the song worked for other rides too, but we didn't know the words so we made them up. That's why it sounded a little bit suggestive and profane. Cheryl thought that was hilarious.
Wake up! Whip it out, whip it up, whip it into shape.
She laughs like a little girl whenever we sang that. She laughs and sings it the second and third time I saw her.
That day, that singing, that making it up to fit left a lasting impression.
It's something the girl doesn't get elsewhere.
The singing.
Elsewhere, another time, I was sitting on a sunny backyard porch with friends having cocktails. I am speaking to a musician, but I forgot that, and I imitate a guy singing a song while playing a guitar. In normal language I go,
"Strum strummy strummy.
Strum strummy strum strummy s-t-r-u-m strum."
(Guantanamera)
The guy cracked up laughing and never stopped. I didn't think it was that funny but it's been "strummy strum strum strum" ever since. He's a philosopher, tall, genuine messy cowboy type, a serious musician, instruments all over the place, plays different kinds, reads music, member of some church choir. I forgot all that momentarily and I was just talking. I used the words, "strum" and "pluck" as onomatopoeia for playing a guitar, as a voice that modulates to fit the music. I exaggerate pathos through music. I give voice to my air guitar. Apparently the serious musician had never heard anything so ridiculous.
He laughed hysterically and painfully. He choked on his breath. He was having a hard time controlling his breathing. Laughter kept taking his air. He kept laughing and choking. He could exhale but not inhale. His inhale-switch was turned off. He could no longer breathe. His exhalations became smaller and smaller and smaller to nothing. He didn't know where the exhaled air came from. The edges of his perception turned black. He knew something was wrong. He sat there and wavered. The dark margin broadened and his window to the room shrank quickly. It closed. He tipped over sideways onto the sofa and passed out with his face on the sofa in front of his laptop. Now that his mind is out of the way, a tiny inhalation happened. A second inhalation occurred automatically. A third partial breath. A full breath. The darkness cleared to light. His laptop appeared in front of his face. He returned to his room, to his place, to his time. He sat there swirling, awake and sideways, the weight of the room filled his space. He sat up. His breathing became normal.
He laughed again. Inhaled.
Laughed again. Inhaled.
Exhaled.
Inhaled.
What was so funny? Was it funny that I treated air guitar so tenderly and seriously? Who even does that? Who even expects such accurate fret work and strumming and plucking action as part of a conversation? Or was it funny that I was so bad at it? Was I making fun of the genera of music? Was I making fun of the guitar? Making fun of playing the guitar? Was I making fun of music that comes out of guitars? Singers generally? Whatever ran through his mind, probably cruelty, something bleakly negative certainly, it was disabling for him.
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