I was just trying to remember if my mother got as angry at things as do I. By “things” I mean objects and maybe situations, not people. I didn’t think so at first but then I remembered one particular incident. She couldn’t figure out how to get to some function of Photoshop. Maybe it was the lasso. She was clicking on the correct button but it was not obvious to her that you were supposed to hold that button down for a second before its sub-buttons appeared. I pointed this out to her and she got angry, howling just a little in a way I think would have been more full throttle if I wasn’t standing there. I chuckled a bit, in the way one does when they are uncomfortable or nervous about something. Never let it be said that laughter is a symptom of happiness but rather of unease. Laughter is commonly classified as happiness because it hijacked the gesture of the smile. I was not laughing at my mother for not knowing to hold the marquee button for a second for the lasso to appear. I laughed because I imagined a room full of software developers chuckling at her for not thinking it obvious that you would hold the button down.
The howling sound she made, though restrained, was the same sound I make, no question. I heard that sound yesterday when the field recorder picked it up. I left the recorder running without realizing it, something which has happened many times before. I sounded like I had some kind of dementia, which I say because another time I heard that howling sound from my mother was when she was drugged up on what I think were blood thinners. I called her at the hospital, unaware she was in this condition, and felt like I was hearing a voice from somewhere very deep. Deep into what I don’t know but it wasn’t deep within her. The ocean, maybe? It was a hard, wooden howl. She was telling me to call the police because she was in some kind of trouble at the hospital, and that they were trying to kill her… or something. It was not the substance of what she said but the solid tenor of her angry, paranoid howl that haunted me.
She would have no memory of that incident, or of several days around which it happened, but the doctor told me not to worry about it since it was a normal reaction to the drugs they put her on.
My father, on the other hand, who also talked to her during this time, told me he thought this was it, that she had finally lost her fucking mind once and for all. I told him otherwise and he seemed to accept it.
She came out of that fine, mentally at least, but for a hot second we all thought she had fallen into full bore dementia. That is why I compare the sound of my voice when I’m angry at things to that of dementia. It just does not sound like me, but it does sound like my mother sounded for those few days at the hospital.
I only get angry like that when no one else is around, though it is not lost on me that windows are open and neighbors can hear things. They probably make fun of me for it. No one has ever commented to me about it but one time I remember the owner of the building giving me a curious, even concerned look as I exited the building. I had just been howling at some piece of software with the window wide open. He was standing right outside, one floor down but easily within earshot. It is the sort of thing he might have said something about to me in my earliest years here, when he asked why I ran my air conditioner in the winter or why I had so little furniture. It was none of his business, he himself added after asking the questions, but he asked anyway, receiving no reply from me. He seems to have learned to not butt in to my or anyone’s business, at least that’s my interpretation of his behavior. It used to be if he came here to fix the kitchen sink he would perform an impromptu cleanliness inspection of the entire place, complaining about such housekeeping atrocities as toothpaste in the sink or overhead light bulbs not working . These days he does not so much as look to his left or right when he is in here, though he probably took advantage of having plenty of opportunity to do that in May, when I went to Tampa at my own expense so he could do what turned out to be a half-assed job of renovating the bathroom.
Mother did get as angry at things as do I, though like me I don’t think she would have fully let it go with anyone else around. I hear that sound and understand, more than I would if anyone tried to explain it to me, how ugly and emotionally draining it is. It sucks everything out of those around you and makes them feel vulnerable. I know from having my soul sucked dry by the anger of others, and now I am reminded of it when hearing accidental recordings of a howling alien voice that happens to belong to me.
Must destroy these recordings.
Angry at Things
