flogging the silent howling

The title is a quote from my work, He(A)r(e)not – for violin, voice, video and soundscape (2009). These words were ringing, no, clanging like broken pots of clay and metal, in my head all night. Needless to say, it was not a restful night. The virus has to take its course, but the autoimmune flare that it has triggered complicates the experience. Pain is always unwelcome, and pain is more than just discomfort, it is a flagellation of clamorous, turbulent muteness. Flogging the silent howling.

Nevertheless, pressing on, I am slowly climbing out of the physical hellhole. With the help of Lucy. I am still not making sense yet, so forgive the fragmented post. Then again, what’s there to forgive? This is just another insight into my world, isn’t it?

This morning, we made a trip to the library again, for another book that I had ordered. I now have a huge stack of books to plow through. As well as being behind in my writing, which was already behind schedule. My brain is exploding in a roaring, rushing, seething soundlessness. Akin to an expressionist-surrealist painting. Not Dali, too slick, more like the rawness of Munch’s “The Scream.”

Valiantly struggling to maintain the Foodie Bunny feistiness, I whipped up a Bunny-take on the old fashioned Chinese dish, Sweet and Sour Pork. Well, that was the original intention anyway, but I forgot to add the ‘sour’ part, so it was just ‘sweet’ and that came from marmalade. Not being a fan of deep frying, I merely did a shallow fry of the small cubes of pork, previously marinaded in soy sauce, black pepper, sesame oil and coated in a thin layer of cornstarch. The tomato was added at the end after excess oil was drained away. I did think of reusing the oil, but the tacky sticky feeling that took over my brain at the sight of it sitting in my little bowl somehow triggered a negative reaction and I threw it all away. Wasteful, I know, but it was a sensory impulse I could not contain. That amount will last over a few meals.

The silent howling is still reverberating in my head, at the back somewhere, though the flogging is weakened by the daylight and the simple activities of the waking hours. Lucy usually sits at my feet or lays in bed across from me, gazing at me with such eyes, the monkeys wielding those whips are weakened.

Scuttling into the kitchen to boil up some ginger for a hot ginger-honey-lemon tea now. Hopefully, that will bung me up enough to be able to sit in the beanbag and work through some reading material.



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