The Music Swims Back To Me

Mark woke me up today. He said, did I wake you and I grunted sleepily. So he remarked, yes, sorry to call you so early, right at the crack of noon, no less. And I said, it makes me no never mind. I tried to explain that I only dropped off when the paperboys raised a racket delivering their inky loads, and he said, what, insomnia again? And I nodded miserably into the phone, despite the fact that my gesture was futile, my phone lacking one video camera.

And then I said, oh happy day, callooh callay and danced in the airwell to my own caterwauling but Mark remained circumspect. He hung up on me after a brief conversation on weather and streptomycin and I lumbered over the black household god to see if anyone had typed words to me. (I found the secret code positioned strategically the back of certain magazines and was eager to share this theory with my tribe but I received nothing in reply)

My dearth of emails didn't bother me. Much. I danced some more and broke into my father's whisky cabinet. Pouring myself a liberal dollop of McCallan's, I read out loud from my latest book, to the television. "Thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?"

And the teevee spoke over me because it is impervious. I wonder if that made me pervious. But I felt more gruntled than not.

The neighbours were beginning to pass my gate purposefully, peeping in to see what all the racket was about. Waving my glass of whisky, I pranced out and told them that our electricity load estimates were way off base and we didn't need so many power stations. They listened gravely and chattered to each other in dialects I could not understand. So I tried to tell them about Dr Amory Lovins and how he said we could slash power consumption by 75 per cent.

They lost interest (everyone loses interest when you bring in percentages) and went back in their respective houses. I danced about and the skies were dark and lowering.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh" I sang.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" I sang.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" I sang.

The neighbours emerged from the fastnesses of their hideouts.

"SHUT UP!" they screamed.

"Ahhhhhhh!" I countered.

We harmonised something wonderful.

Then beep beep, there went my phone. A friend wanted to have a very serious conversation about semicolons. "Kurt Vonnegut said that semicolons are for pretentious wanks," I assured her soothingly.

Pause.

"Doesn't that make you a wank?" she wanted to know.

"I suppose it does. Haha, I'm a wank; I'm a wank; I listen to no one; not even the great Vonnegut," and I was off dancing again.

After all, it made me no never mind.

The mango tree regarded me sternly, so I hugged it and murmured soothing imprecations.

It didn't calm down so I gave it a little whisky.

And then the storm broke out and the tree danced with me.

"Take off your clothes," it rustled.

"Not right now, if you don't mind," I pleaded amiably.

"Why not?"

"Humans are not nearly as civlized as mango trees."

My mango tree sighed. "I think you'd better go in little girl. You've had enough whisky for one day. Single malt notwithstanding."

I felt sad that it didn't want to play but I shuffled inside obediently. The neighbours broke out in a cheer, so I turned and bowed.

Anne Sexton said: "Oh music swims back to me."

I said: "And candour flies out the window."

The mango tree crooned: "Each day through my window I watch her as she passes by..."

And I rapped: "Shake that booty, shake that bark, come on let's take a walk in the park!"

We harmonised something wonderful.

And music swims back to me...