soup?

I dropped a can of soup on the floor today. It was this disgusting mushroom and barley flavor, so honestly, good riddance. I don’t remember how it slipped from my grip. I had opened the can and took a step or two and it was on the floor. There was soup on the floor and the walls and the garbage can, splattered like a Jackson Pollock. I hated the smell. I squatted down and wiped some of the mess. Then I got tired of squatting and wiping and took a nap. The mess was remained half cleaned, and leaked into my dream, I was swimming in soup, showering in soup, washing my hair with soup, drowning in soup. I woke up all sweaty. I wiped my forhead and was relieved I was sweating sweat and not soup. I got out of bed and had a seat in my comfy chair. The soup was still rotting on the kitchen floor, but there were other tasks occupying my todo list. Most important was my bass guitar. After months of declaring “I will be in a band,” a band was being conjured. I had a vocalist, Phuong (who, if you have been following, dear reader, is Tom’s cousin), whose youthful expression and soft yet emotional vocals made her an excellent singer, and now Raul, a humble but experienced guitarist who was eager to impress, and had a collection of pedals that he showed off like accomplished sons. We gathered in Phuong’s apartment and the two of them looked at me with questioning eyes, and I realized this must be what it’s like to be a big sister. I liked the feeling of being looked towards for leadership but I was also nervous to let to sort-of-band down. I also realized I would have to get comfortable with making mistakes in front of people. Thus, the task of practicing bass became elevated in priority because I could’t let these folks down, and yet the fear of letting them down became such a paralyzing force that I relinquished thoughts of practice and went straight away to the kitchen to clean the mess I had made.

I don’t know how long it took to clean. First I wiped the floor, then the splatters on the wall, then I mopped the whole area to ensure maximum cleanliness. During each movement I could feel a tension in my body release itself. Sometimes I do like cleaning. The mechanical motions release the stress that comes with the complexities of being human, and I turn into a simple, thoughtless machine. The results are instant - I wipe, there’s clean. When I finish wiping up the soup, I find other things to clean so I can remain machine. I load the dishwasher, wipe the counters, and arrange any clutter. The kitchen feels new again, and maybe I do too.

I go back to my comfort chair. There is my bass again. I attempt to play, practicing 16th notes for my warmup. My fingers fail to move fast enough. I am human once again. What I do feel in between spaces of frustration is joy - joy that the movement of my fingers is not a reflexative motion to stimula but my deliberate choice. If I am the master of the sounds that my bass will produce than what else can I control with my own fingertips. A joy that derives from my own power. Maybe that is what I enjoy most about my own humanity.