Fragment 1: Drive

We took drives, the four of us, up and down Michigan; sometimes as far as the northern edge of the Hinterwastes.  Driving’s just what you do, out there; you rock on potholes and scan the radio.  Cosmic forces.  When any news came on about Aton or The Wars, anything in the Urgent Present Continuous, we switched stations and watched the dragonflies pass back and forth above the trees, like burning coals.

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In the backseat, Dani started riffing on alphabets.  She was always riffing.  I can’t riff.  I’ve got the wrong skull shape, or too many incisors.  Born under a stubborn comet.  

She oi’d from the back seat, a habit she’d picked up in Vietnam.  Kai-oi! What’s your favorite sound, any alphabet?

She’d spent the past ten minutes rattling off relative merits of the arabic ghayn and the cyrillic zhe, along with the cosmological model implied by Southeast Asian writing systems.  I wanted to bring out some equally exotic article of crypticana, but a stunted wind was blowing from the northeast, and we’d spent all day driving through the rolling quell of endless square acres, soil so black and flecks of perlite fertilizer so white, the fields looked like freshly tilled stars. I was gear-gummed and lulled, not in the sort of mood to try and outshine my flare gun of a sister.  So I gave a lulled answer, as was my karma probably.  

/m/ I hummed.

Dani scoffed, just as I expected.

Let me guess, said Wulf, /m/ is a closed-mouth sound, so she’s a closed off person?  Needs to open up?

Sure, Dani shrugged, but deeper than that, /m/ is the universal hum of self-delusion.

This is going to be a whole thing, isn’t it?

Wulf, what do you call the woman who gave birth to you?

Don’t do this.  I’m so calm and warm, let’s just watch the fields.

Come on, Wulf.  In English, what do we call her?

…Mom.

Wulf, no, don’t help her.

Exactly, Mom.  What about Spanish?

Madre.  Or Mama.

French?

Ummm.

Think Camus.

Oh right, maman.

Arabic?

No clue.

I gave in and barked her answer like a good dog, Ahm.

Dani rattled off more: ma, mae, matka, mare, mor, omma.  A baby opens and closes its mouth while it makes the most basic humming sound its vocal cords are capable of— She demonstrated, opening her mouth in a wide doctor’s office Aaahh and closing it while continuing the sound, then opening, closing, opening.  Aaaahhmm mmaaaahhmmm mmaaahmmaahmahmahm. Kids are learning how to make noise and move their mouths, the most basic of human sounds, and what do mothers assume, in every language, back to the root of language?  Oh, it must be about me!  These twitches and hums, they must be about me me me.  It must be what my baby is calling me, my new name, bestowed by this little creature.  Egotistical self-deception, enshrined in language family after language family.  Every mother tongue.

Dani got like that sometimes. The gleeful savor of a cynical riff was irresistable when the stars aligned.

Fine, I said, but the letter M alone ain’t all of that.  It’s just— I tried to put words to what I liked about it, —I don’t know, there’s a finished-ness to it.  A completion.  You can hold a /m/ for as long as your breath lasts, and it doesn’t change.  I demonstrated, ummmmmm…

You sound like a monk, laughed Wulf.

Wulf’s brother Jordan spoke up, eyes still resting ahead on the road, All that about M and moms, whatever you said — he nodded at Dani — same things apply to Om, the mantra.  The most holy syllable in the world to millions of hindus, buddhists, weekend yoga-volk, who knows who else. And all it is is slowly closing your mouth while you hum, then stopping for a breath before you start again.

Alright, Dani said, And what’s Jordan’s favorite sound?

Without hesitation, he chirped /t/.

Dani sat in back for a second, brow furrowed.  Then she burst out laughing, You’re a fucking mystery, Jord, you know that?