The Day I Was Allowed to Divide by Zero
Space-time ripples ebb and flow, riding gravitational waves. Right angles egress momenta at the speed of light, deviating without losing energy. But not all right angles are congruent with the others. They're simply right-angled to their original trajectory.
They can cross.
Where they cross are nexi where possibility and impossibility meet in uncomfortable alliances of tentative détente. They're windows for those who know how to look through them.
If you're lucky, such a once-in-a-lifetime event will be in your own lifetime. You can smell it. It's a sparkly, colorful smell of synesthesia. It makes a noise you can see. It, briefly, is a living thing.
Have your pencil and paper ready when it happens! You can't use a calculator--unless you bought it from an imaginary friend who calculates in imaginary numbers.
I was ready. I've lived my life ready.
The operation was a success.
I smelled the colorful sparkles. I saw its thunder and heard its lightning. I tasted its lush impossibility. A rogue wave of confluent contadictions crested over me. I was awash. I was drenched. I was inundated.
Pencil firmly in my non-dominant hand, for that is the only way to the math, I drew the obelus divisor bar.
I placed the divisor: zero.
As dividend, I awaited the quotient. (It had been waiting for me since time immemorial.)
I vomited iambic pentameter; I shit rainbows; I cried contrapuntal fugues. I sweat orgasm bullets. I numerated my denominator. I turned around and saw myself. I relived my nativity. I chose my conception. I turned to my right and righted my wrongs; I turned to my left and left everything behind. I saw the doable and did the undoable. I had a feeling of feeling. I counted my blessings in Base 2, arriving at a repeating square root of a negative number that could shame pi. I knew the secret recipe for peace, from the quantum level to the macro world to the theoretical limits of universal entropy.
For the first time in my life I was truly happy. And amazed.
And welcome.
My "quotient": our falling in love. And now I realize it happens much more often than I thought. You just have to do the math.
The Principle of Resonance
The Principle of Resonance
June 15, 2024
I sat in the first chair awaiting the new conductor. Like most of the others, I fiddled with my violin, practicing my scales, just trying to waste a few minutes without drawing attention to myself.
However,
Despite the best plans “Of Mice and Men” things often go awry. I randomly played, just for fun, the opening notes from “Smoke on the Water” thinking they would dilute among the background noise of the other candidates and their audible scales.
However,
The fair young lady with the cello, tuned in perfect fifths, one octave higher than I was accustomed, repeated my audible emission. She went a step further and added her own opening to “Stairway to Heaven” and waited for a reply.
According to the Scientific Principle of Resonance, an increase in the amplitude of the oscillation of one system exposed to a periodic force whose frequency is equal to or nearly the same as the frequency of another system. I might not have heard it over all of the background noise, but the strings would have vibrated none-the-less.
But return the salvo I did.
Perhaps she knew “Dueling Banjos.” It was an easy tune to catch, even easier to release.
She was a fisherman in orchestral garb.
I was glad the conductor was late.
At the conclusion of the audition, she blew me a kiss and signed her phone number. Of course I understood. Of course I called. Of course I set a date.
Who am I to violate a scientific principle?
Scarlett
The sunlight snuck through my window curtain as it reached the peak of dawn. The smell of freshly brewed coffee slipped through the crack of my door, making my stomach feel fluttering with the wings of butterflies. Today was the day I was going to become a mother. My last meal as pregnant woman. David had the counter filled with warm blueberry crêpes, eggs, bacon and fruit. All of my favorites. I was too excited to eat. The hospital bag was packed and ready for takeoff. We rushed to the car almost slipping in the snow.
"Don't waste a fall sweetie. We will get there and hold Scarlett before we can even blink." David said catching me.
"I know dear, but I am so tired of being pregnant I feel like I am going to pop!" I chuckled.
David ignited the engine, and our playlist began to play, the melodies designed to release serotonin in our brains. We wanted to make sure Scarlett was just as excited to meet us as we are her. As we began driving the snow began to fall heavily. It was clear I started to doubt our safety to the hospital, but I was determined to hold my daughter today. The look on David's face showed no emotion. Was he excited to be a father, or was he having doubts? Everything approached us so quickly; it almost seems as though we had no time to process the actual change that was to take place in our lives.
"We are going to be amazing parents." I assured him.
"The best." He added.
Our song from our high school days began to play on cue as we looked at each other and smiled. We took it as a wink from the universe confirming our positive affirmation. The snow began to fall more quickly than we intended today. A stop sign appeared out of nowhere. David reached for the breaks, but the car was too heavy to stop in time. We slid right through the stop sign simultaneously hearing the horn of an eighteen-wheeler truck skidding right beside us. I woke up in the hospital bed, still pregnant. I made eye contact with David and asked him what had just happened.
"We slid through a stop sign, when I cut the wheel to avoid a giant truck headed right for us you hit your head on the window and fainted." He explained
"Don't worry, you and the baby are safe now." David continued.
My eyes filled with tears. How could I almost lose my baby the day I am supposed to officially meet her? I could not remember the incident. It was best I kept it out of my head and welcome the birth of baby Scarlett. Hours flew by and still no baby, they needed to increase the Pitocin. My head began to throb with pain, so much so that I didn't realize the contractions were getting stronger. My nurse came to check on me.
"Are you ready to have a baby?" She eagerly asked. She proceeded to get her gloves and call the rest of the nurses and my doctor along with them.
"Okay we are going to continue with a practice push.
I gathered all of my breath and proceeded to push with all my strength.
"SHE'S HERE!" The nurse shouted. With one push she was out in the world.
"Wow, usually the firstborn is the hardest!" My doctor said surprised. Little did he know, she technically isn't my firstborn. Hazel was my first daughter David and I had when we were only 16. At five months old, she fell asleep one evening and did not awaken. A decade has passed, yet it continues to haunt us.
Holding Scarlett for the first time did not feel real. Her skin was warm against mine. Then she felt cold. Everything felt cold. I looked at her face, she was blue.
"David!" I began to cry. No one was around to hear me scream.
"Someone help me!" I cried again. I took one last look at Scarlett; she had no skin just bones. Then she crumbled into ashes right before my eyes.
"Somebody! Anybody, help me please, I'm begging you!" The lights began to flicker, and I could hear my heart pounding in my chest.
"David, please where are you?!" I sobbed once more.
The lights turned on; my hands were tied against the bed. The surrounding air began to heat up, making it increasingly difficult to breathe. Finally, I heard a voice.
"Charlotte! wake up! Its doctor Locust."
My doctor's name is Dr.Mick and my name is not Charlotte. Who is this man, and who is he talking to? I thought to myself.
"You are admitted to Brixton Hospital." He proceeded.
"Who are you talking to? My name is not Charlotte, and where is my baby Scarlett and David?"
Doctor Locust turned to face the other gentleman in the room. He didn't resemble a doctor; rather than scrubs, he was in a suit.
"She is finally remembering the day it happened." The man in the suit stated
"What are you talking about?" My anger was rising at that moment.
The two men looked at each other once more. Then he began to speak.
"Charlotte, my name is Doctor Harper. I have been your psychiatrist for 3 years. We began Hypnotherapy two months ago, which you agreed." He said handing me a contract with my supposed signature.
"The mission is to help you remember the day it all happened. We have been making progress. However, it is the moment you recall the stop sign that you begin to regress. Today we made it as far as the hospital. Instead, you changed the story, as well as who you are." Harper continued.
"You aren't making any sense!" I stammered. The two doctors looked at each other once more.
"Your name is Charlotte Hanson. You are a resident of Brixton Mental Hospital and have been for 3 consecutive years. Today is the anniversary of David and Scarlett's death. You two were on your way to the hospital to give birth during one of the biggest snowstorms in history. During your travels, David's vehicle slid on ice while he was stepping on the breaks forcing you to drive through the stop sign. You collided with an eighteen-wheeler truck where David died on sight of the accident. The ambulance was able to transport you and Scarlett to the hospital just ten minutes down the road. Unfortunately, you lost too much blood. Scarlett died inside of you before they could take her out. When you became conscious again, your mother was in the room and told you everything that happened. Your mind could not process the news. After a few days at home, you attempted suicide by taking David's Police firearm and shooting yourself, leaving you that large scar on the side of your head."
My face felt pale. I slowly reached for the scar the man was referring to. He was right. The moment my finger touched the healed stitches it all started coming back to me. Flashes of memories began to play like short clips from a movie. Only this wasn't a movie, it was my reality.
凤凰 [resilience]
cramped in a boat, my grandparents
struggle to find space, for everyone
is trying to get out of the mess that is
1920s China—the king has just been
overthrown; his kingdom smashed into
a thousand pieces like a porcelain bowl
falling from its glory; the two sects of China
have gone into war, shooting cannons
and taking blood from their relatives,
yet there go my grandparents, unscathed
and free from the hurricane, starting
once again in an unfamiliar world,
rising from the challenge like a phoenix
spreading its wings and soaring, shining
its golden feathers for all the world to see
Pieces of Work
I'm reading Melissa Febos' Body Work currently, the one where she advises to only include people in your memoir if 1) they have proofread it before it is published and 2) you have a good lawyer.
I may just be kidding (lightly) about the lawyer part, but Febos discusses in great, painful detail how including people in your memoir can be dicey. They may disagree with your version of events. Febos' main point is that everyone has their own version of events.
I have a friend, let's call her Magdalena (that's the first thing I'm doing, at least - renaming her). She invited me to her birthday party, we were close, -ish. We texted, she seemed excited to get to know me. I was excited, too. We went rock climbing together and she was waiting until we met up again for us to get our rock climbing memberships and continue to go rock climbing together.
Here's the other thing: about me, at least. I may or may not do some light "social media stalking" from time to time. But let's rename that, too. I did some "research" into this girl. We had plans to hang out today, and I texted her this morning about meeting up. I was also curious to see if she exists online. She does.
Yesterday, this girl posted on her public Facebook page - which I found merely by searching for her first name - that she went rock climbing and "finally" got her membership - but with another girl.
She took forever to get back to me this morning, so much so that I asked if she'd like to reschedule our meet-up. She agreed - without offering any follow up times that she's free, which is very uncharacteristic of her.
Here's where I want to be careful: especially with social media, there is very infrequently a putting of "two and two" together organically. What I mean by that is, assume nothing is a direct result of your findings, and feelings about those findings.
I'm sure she isn't "replacing me", or trying to snub me. But it certainly seems that way.
And here's where I tie this back to my intro. I would actually welcome her feedback on this piece, to see what she's really thinking and feeling about me. But it's always a gamble including someone in your writing. She may silently blink, then once again and then three times, and wonder what the ____ drugs I'm on.
I could also ask her directly, obviously, what she feels.
But that would be too easy, and wouldn't that implicate me? I did some light research. I suppose I could also send her a friend request, but wouldn't that also be too easy?
So where am I going to end this piece? What is my conclusion? My conclusion is not that I should hire a lawyer. My conclusion is that we obviously should jump to conclusions based on social media findings.
And that our version of events is not fact. It is a perspective.
Or so I tell myself.
