Heart is where the risk is

My laundry room is a source of endless inspiration.

Does this terrify me?

Does it? I go all the way inside myself, past my eyes and my mouth, my throat, my ribs and my heart, I fold myself deep into the core where there’s a fluttering bird in a cage and I repeat the question to the bird who has been fluttering already, for some time, probably since I first thought the thing. This is a good sign. The fluttering.

Yes it does terrify me, is the answer, and the bird adds: It might destroy you. It might embarrass you. It will not bring peace. You will be asked about it. You will have to explain. It makes no sense. It probably won’t bring you any money either. Your son will be embarrassed. For you. Your friends too. Men will think you are unfuckable. Strangers will feel sorry for you.

In general, you will make people uncomfortable.
Your inbox will go silent.
You will be a liability at dinner parties.
You will be called intense, dramatic.

You should be ashamed of yourself.
Too much,
Too loud.

You will not be invited back.
But also you will not care.

And so—
You will do it.

Good. Let’s do it then, I say and then I do it, the thing that terrifies me. The bird and the question mean that what I’m doing is the absolutely correct thing to do. When I don’t hear it flutter, what is the point of doing it?

The bird is a feeling, the cage is my gut.