Rockin’ out… to Mozart? Yes :)

I can’t write and listen to music at the same time. It is so impossible for me. Writers very often get asked the question, “What music do you listen to while you write?” While I can’t speak for other writers, I can say with absolute certainty that, while attempting to write, I cannot listen to any music that allows for me to sing along. I start to dance in my chair and lip sync (because most of my writing occurs well past sundown) and I can’t focus any of my attention at the blank page in front of me, much less focus on a frameless idea in my thought process while David Bowie or Elvis Costello is rocking out in my ears.

With that said, it has taken me half an hour to write this little bitty bit. I am currently listening to Death From Above 1979 and anyone who is familiar with them fully understands the difficulty I am having in concentrating on my keyboard.

With my NaNoWriMo word count looking pretty pathetic after four days, I am finally starting to accept a fact I’ve known for awhile but have longed to challenge: I must endure the creative writing process sans my favorite sing along-able songs. Or, at the very least, replace them with some Bach. A little Chopin. Maybe some Tchaikovsky. Probably no Mozart though. His stuff is way too fun to listen to.

underwater.

The wind stirs inside of me the way it swirls through leaves on trees, disturbing the peace, unsettling what is typically a settled day. I feel anxious and scattered, like I’m trying to catch my breath but I can’t because it has joined the wind, a captive stallion reunited with the wild herd. I walk against it and my eyes tear and the tears streak across my temples. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand and shield my eyes from the wind with the other. I squint ahead and finally see the bus stop, a simple red bench, unguarded by the whipping wind, a victim to its fury. Like me. I finally reach it and sit, huddling with my knees pulled up tight, as if to minimize the beating my body is receiving. It is no longer just wind. It is a tornado, a hurricane, a monsoon minus the rain. I’ve never felt wind like this before.

The bus arrives and its hydraulic doors whoosh open. I stand and grab the railing. Hoisting myself onto the step, I crash against the side, fighting with the wind, before finally stepping fully inside, the doors whooshing closed behind me. I slide my beanie off my head and drop change into the tray, smiling politely at the driver, a very large man with a turban on his head. It’s crazy out there, eh? He says. I nod and think that I’ve never met a Canadian muslim. I turn down the aisle to find a seat. The bus is empty. I sigh, realizing I’m the only idiot out in this weather. I drop my backpack on a seat and plop down next to it. Skimming through my travel guide, I figure out that I’ll be on the bus for at least an hour. I pull out a book and my intention is to read but I can feel my eyes begin to droop in a matter of sentences.

I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep before I am rudely jolted awake. I have to grab the pole on my left just to stay on the seat. I frantically glance at the driver and his face is red and scrunched and his hands are gripping the steering wheel but I can tell they are shaking. The force of the wind is too strong for him to keep this up for much longer, I think to myself. I’m sorry miss, he says, as if he heard my thought. I think we’ll have to stop for a bit. Until this wind calms down. Whenever that will be.

I think he is about to pull over into a gravel highway inlet. I see a tunnel bridge ahead, and then the bus is hit by a wrecking ball. No, no, it isn’t a wrecking ball. Gale-force winds have just toppled the bus onto its side but it doesn’t stop, it keeps tumbling, down the embankment toward a river. My body and backpack are tumbling with the bus, slamming against the windows, the plastic seats. My vision is momentarily in line with the bus driver and I know he is unconscious, his body slumped in the stairwell of the bus, as if stuck there, and I wonder how it is that I have not been knocked out yet. I manage to grab ahold of a pole and hang on right as the bus lands in the river with a magnificent splash. It is surprisingly upright as it begins to sink. The windows have been smashed and the wind roars passed my ears and my eyes water, tears streaming down my cheeks and all I can do is cover my face with my hands and gasp in a near hyperventilating way. The bus driver has come to and lunges for the hydraulic door lever. It gurgles open and he screams for me to swim over as he exits. It is too late though and I take one more quick, frightened breath before the bus is fully submerged.

I am surprised at how peaceful it is underwater. It is soft and slow and cushiony. I am calm because I realize how easily I’ll be able to swim out of the doors or windows to the surface. The river isn’t very deep because the light in the water is still bright enough for me to make out blurry shapes. So I float there, hanging onto the pole, knowing that as soon as I resurface, I’ll be hit by the wind.

I wonder how long I can wait.