He who Hears the Bluebell Ring

You probably think I was joking about horses sneaking up on people. I meant it, though. Horses are sneaky fucks. They nudge right up on you and stick their snouts in your ear, then they snort on your neck and bask in your outrage. If you don’t believe me, try for yourself. Turn your back on a horse. Go on. I dare you.

Do horses have snouts, or would you call that a muzzle? How do you know what’s a snout or a muzzle?

Anyway, fuck horses. I came here today to talk about bluebells. Bluebells are flowers that grow in the woods. You get them in Britain, and probably all over. They carpet whole forests and take over your lawn. I’ve heard them described as scraps of sky fallen to earth, but the thing about bluebells is, they want you dead. If you hear one ring, you’ll be gone in a week. (According to legend. I’ve never heard of that happening.)

I was thinking, though, what if you could hear one ring? A bluebell’s not a bell, but it sort of has clappers. It’s got six stamens, which, when the wind is rough, must bump up on its petals. And that bump must make some sound, even if we can’t hear it. If that could be magnified into audible range…you know, I’m not sure how to finish this sentence.

If that could be magnified into audible range…I’d sort of want to try it, but not just with one bluebell. I’d want to record hundreds of them in all sorts of pitches, and make them play Chopin, or maybe some Liszt.

If that could be magnified into audible range…it would be a dull sound, like a duster on a shelf.

If that could be magnified into audible range…how, exactly, would one do it? And has anyone tried?

I’m tired to the bone because I’m writing two books at once again. I hate when I’m stuck writing two books at once. When I’m writing two books, I think silly thoughts—snidey cunt horses and the chime of bluebells.

I’m also quite homesick, and I’m not sure why.

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