I've been collecting a cacophony
In my head.
A roiling boil of soundbites
Rendered from
The ceaseless
Onslaught
Of news reports
And weather forecasts.
Facts and stats
Slapped in my face
From the palm of my hand;
Tarrifs and coal mines and cyclones,
Burning and bird flu and salmon bones.
The voices
Of the messengers
Meld into a misanthropic mash
That crowds
My dreams
And tightens
The screws
In my jaw.
But this morning,
Riding my bike
Through the mists
Over Lygon st,
I try and outpeddle
The seething mass of sound.
Not with the intention
To leave it somewhere
Back there,
Forced into
periphery
While I escape
To some far off place.
No, I've never found
Equanimity
In avoidance.
None that lasts, at least.
But what I have found,
If I can just get a bit of distance,
Is that the words and worries
Lose their articulations
And simmer to a hum.
If I can just move my body fast enough,
Find that place
Where my lungs wrest
breath
From my chest,
Heaving me back into my body,
I can hear
The entangled
Tussle of
Thoughts and theories
Fluttering
In the breeze
Behind me.
And somewhere
In that flutter
I might find a resonance.
Sometimes,
If I listen closely,
I can hear the patterns emerge.
A beat
Which frames
Something beyond this moment:
The gentle murmur
Of geological time.
A slow hum in the sediment
Lay down in their strata
With the staccato thrums
Of microplastics and nuclear fallout.
The cadence
Of the cacophony
Offers insight
In syncopation.
In truth,
It's a rhythm
I hoped I'd never have to learn.
A tarantella
Of travesties,
It's all in the footwork:
Quick step
And brace for impact:
Bending,
Bowing,
And softly,
Slowly
Rising again.
I Listen for the hum
And dance
Lest I rust in place
And warp under pressure.
We dance
As we orbit our star
And oscillate
Between the various futures
Eroding the riverbanks
Which carry
This river of history.
The wars
The waste
The rubble
The rabble
The singed
The seized
The data
The demons.
We witness
And weave it back in.
I peddle and peddle and peddle.
March 2025