Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never.
Yesterday as I was sitting at my computer in what The Wife calls “the literary man cave,” I kept hearing sirens as if off in the distance, almost all day and all night.
First, let me place the story in its proper setting. We live in a small town in the country, not Compton where sirens are a common occurrence. When helicopters fly over our house, usually it’s for the latest yahoos who skidded their motorcycles across a patch of God’s green earth, not the Pol-ese.
So why was I hearing sirens? I asked The Wife when she got home and said Medic 2 was responding to something going on in a nearby town. She passed it on its way. All right. That must have been it then, but then why was I still hearing it an hour later?
I asked The Wife. “Do you hear sirens?”
“No, it must be in your head.”
I’ve had a lot of things in my head– the voices that tell me to be as offensive as Chelle B. at The Offended Blogger or to talk about mammaries all the time like Meg at Prefers Her Fantasy Life — but most of the time, I don’t listen to them. Well, I listen, but don’t follow through.
But now sirens? To be honest, it’s getting a little crowded in here. What with the voices, not to mention with the ramblings I concoct on the crack of salad dressings, Scripto giga pens, the so far unplanned chicken barbecue for Planned Parenthood, and then with the ear worms that get entrenched there.
The latest ear worm: “Piggies” by the Beatles. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.
It’s like the images on the backs of my eyelids. You know, the muscae vitae. I can’t get rid of them either.
Luckily, though, they’re usually just purple spots and squiggly amoeba-like creatures and not Vietnam flashbacks (as if, I was born when that clusterfahrvenugen was well under way), although that would be pretty bitchin’ if they were Vietnam flashbacks like in Platoon (which, by the way, The Wife has never seen. Can you believe that?) or even better Apocalypse Now, one of my favorite movies if just for this scene.
So as you can tell, I don’t need any sirens in my head. I may need a doctor, but I certainly don’t need sirens.
O, Great Muse, take these sirens from my ears and give them to someone else. Just don’t give me ear worms like this to silence the sirens:
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