Speaking in "tunggggs"
Steams of Consciousness While Making Breakfast for Lunch
When finding oneself in the shadow of an administration that seeks to demonize and mislead and sever and scatter, one must not forget to dance.
Or, in my case, I must not put off the inclination to shuffle my feet on the tile floor of my kitchen while I make two breakfast sandwiches for lunch—one for me, and one for Jenae, my wife, who’s currently upstairs breastfeeding our daughter, Sonora.
The invitation to dance hits me right in the mailbox during “Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard,” the live version sung by Simon and Garfunkel from their concert in Central Park. The original recording featured a flute—I think—but the version I heard this Sunday afternoon while it rained and rained had a saxophone on it, which delighted me greatly because as of late, I’ve been thinking a lot about saxophones—from Saturday Night Live to Springsteen’s “Born to Run,” from a video a friend posted of her son’s high school concert performance to, now that I think about it...America’s Funniest Videos?
Did that have a saxophone on it?
(I check. It has a horn section...so, yes!)
When “Me and Julio...” starts playing, I sing along with Paul and Art while gluten-free bread from New Cascadia Bakery crisps up in our toaster (Long May You Live, New Cascadia). As I sing, I wonder if Jenae and Sonora can hear me. We live in an old house with thin walls, which means you can hear phone calls, YouTube Videos, Zoom Meetings, farts, sneezes, coffee grinders, printers, farts during Zoom Meetings, and maybe, in today’s case, a man feebly but joyfully attempting to sing along to “Me and Julio Down by The Schoolyard.”
Somewhere close to the lyric about being on the cover of Newsweek, I hear the “tungggg” of the recliner upstairs, which signals that Jenae’s done nursing.
We bought the recliner off Facebook Marketplace. It’s comfy and cozy and “tunggggs” whenever one opens or closes the footrest. I hadn’t paid attention to it until now, and for whatever reason, today of all days, on a day and in a moment where I’m tempted to doom-scroll and get angry and then scared and then do nothing, today is the day the “tungggg” of the recliner cuts through the sounds of the over-easy egg sizzle and the pineapple-bacon sausage snapping, and in the midst of what I’m generously calling “dancing,” I am reminded that the thin walls of this old house are a blessing, because one day my daughter will outgrow the need for nursing, and that “tungggg” will never again sing through the lath and plaster of our home.
“Tungggg” is the church bell that calls me to prayer. It is the sound that nearly brings me to the ground and sends me soaring all at once.
Today, then, is the day I sing loud and dance with abandon. Today is the day I rejoice at the sound of recliners and of sizzling, delicious, expensive eggs. Today is the day I enter into Central Park with thanksgiving in my heart.
When the food is ready, I turn off the burners and plate the two Mona Lisa breakfast sandwiches. They sparkle and steam and as I hear the creak and bend of my two loves descending the staircase, I remind myself—or am myself reminded—that joy is a hard and worthy fruit.
I am reminded that as I pay attention and make space in my garden, Joy will grow and keep me in concert with others.
My loves land at the bottom of the staircase. They turn to face the kitchen, and though Julio has, by this point, long left the schoolyard, I feel like dancing all over again.
I feel, all over again, like dancing.
*Also, I listened again to the original recording, not the live version, and turns out it’s not a flute as I thought, but someone whistling, which reminds me of when Paul Simon performed the song on Stephen Colbert’s late night show, and Stephen gleefully performed the whistling part. See? More joy.
Lovely! I needed to hear that amidst all this bombardment of destruction and cruelty. Thank you.