Headbanger/Eat Crow

The pain in my head pushes out light and sound and social engagements. The pain in my head lays me down in bed on a sunny day, elbows phone messages and communication away, bats at books and other distractions till they stop dangling and keep still. The pain in my head is eating me and my arrogance.

My plans for doing this and writing that, for fitting one more conversation into tired ears - the pain in my head has been building years of momentum towards stopping all this.

A line on the ground. Stop moving. Stop. Reading, hearing, writing, talking, listening, meeting, stop. Pull back. Move away. Stop trying so damn hard to articulate what it is you think you need to say. Shhh.

The thing is, when you've spent so long keeping your mouth shut when it should have been speaking out, when you feel like you've so much catching up to do, so many things that need outing, so many responses, so much shouting back at too many years of compliance and silence - when you're still run through by the power and transformation that trips off an honest and clear word, still blown away by being heard - how do you stop?

When the words start spilling past the brim, how do you mop up? How do you stem the tide of your own hot hungry drive, your belly deep need, to communicate? How? When, even though silence could now be a choice, it still feels on reflex like old mufflings, sock filled mouth, not chosen, but imposed.

I used to think that when people, artists, and especially women, got older and seemed to display less of their youthful fire and anger and impulsive fuck you, that it was due to some kind of unfortunate fading. Less interesting, less inspiring, these contented mellow folk.

Now faced with a mountain of my own threats - health neglected that's no longer happy to hand out another drink on credit - I am having to learn about modesty. Or if not modesty, then humility. Or if not humility, then realising that shouting and shouting and running and running for years and years without respite will eventually burn right to the bottom and snuff itself out.

My arrogance, my disappointment in the seemingly mellowed older folk, my badly tuned ear that couldn't hear the subtle notes of revolution and radical evolution in their voices, their something to say on more than one note voices - that arrogance and anger that fuelled me is coming back with its hand held out for payment.

Black birds now follow me everywhere, telling me to stop talking and eat crow.

Move slow. Slower. Go deep. Deeper. See what's down there in the quiet. And when you return to the surface, lungs burning and ears ringing from the pressure of still, open your mouth wide and try, first, before anything else, just tasting the air.