Friday, January 20, 2012
On the fire road in Brand Park, behind Brand Library on the way to the Brand Cemetery, the S-curves in the road are so tight that a low speed limit isn't enough to prevent accidents, so there are regularly-posted signs instructing you to "Sound Horn." Presumably, that's to let those who are approaching you from around the curve to know that you're on your way, and also to let those whom you approach know of your imminent arrival from around the bend.
If someone or something is on its way to me, can it please sound its horn?
I feel like I've been sounding my horn for ages, maybe centuries, certainly decades, since the first contraction erupted in my mother's dilating cervix, and I emerged bellowing from the birth canal four hours later, wailing so much as a baby that my Grammy predicted I would become an opera singer.
Since then, I've sung, screamed, speeched, hollered, and used my stage voice and projected even in normal everyday conversation. I've sounded my horn. Everyone knows when I'm coming, and when I've arrived.
But does my horn fall upon deaf ears? Does my horn warn or transform anything around me, anything at all?
Or maybe I'm warning nothing and no one, because they're not over there, on the other side. Perhaps nothing this way comes.
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