If I Were a Radio

If I Were a Radio by Illian RainMaybe I’m already a fucking radio—maybe there is no if where I reside—where anyone with the inclination to play capture the flag with written words resides.

We—the so-called normally functioning humans—receive and transmit on the regular, consciously or otherwise. We—transcribers of fellow primates on souls, free of the burden of sound.

Knowingly, blindly, or un-awaredly we counter incoming vibrations with dismissal or reciprocity, an esoteric response that either blossoms or disappears into the night along with effluence and dreams.

Familiar wavelengths are easy—crossing currents to intercept unfamiliar transmissions less so. Every beautiful head is a subconscious party-line to be tapped and eavesdropped upon, every beautiful head an invitation for discourse and understanding.

If I were a radio I would feed the endless hunger to understand first and faithfully transcribe afterwards. This lust for the impossible nourishes and satisfies in defiance of limitations and guaranteed shortcomings.

Here we are now, an army of flesh and bones, of induction and conduction tuned to frequencies that some hear more clearly than others. Frequencies buzz around my head sometimes and sometimes not—sometimes it is only my ventriloquist scream bellowing through the wires.

Echoes issue from pen or keyboard. Letters speak without obligation to vocalize.

Listeners pivot toward the sound of rattling pains, wires touching, electrodes brushing and rubbing until we are graced with a presence adulterated by time and personal differences.

Message are altered between me to you, a systematic modification of sound tampering with frequencies until I cup my hand around a thing that is no longer a part of you.

Imprecise treaties made concrete through Hertz long dead though by no means irrelevant.

Wake up. Stay awake. People change even as you’re looking into their eyes.

Advice for the children I do not have.

Do not waste energy by converting it into impulses any ear can hear. Any ear does not matter, so leave it be—waste nothing on inanimate objects that absorb the energy of your sound without a return signal.

Human ears are extraneous in the realm of inaudible currents. Our pens are requisite antennas performing double duty, and that which giveth can also taketh away.

Forget the buzzing masses, those throbbing centers of irrelevant sound. The capture effect holds no sway here—the strongest signal is mercilessly drowned by the obscure, the intriguing, the heart, the soul, the sublime. The strongest sound bounces furthest away, is gravely wounded by reflection, refraction, diffraction.

There are no whores here, no castaways. There is only us, and time, and energy flowing hither and nigh until it rebounds off concrete bones and hearts and minds and sends back the confirmation that there is life existing within our proximity.

Honour the cracks in the exterior. Leave the window ajar for the unknown to enter.

Advice for more children I still do not have.

Don’t forget.

Perhaps I can blame erratic output—muted whispers and whoops of joy, pain, fear, and certainty—on the erratic input, on erratic lines of energy surging through my wiring or failing to ignite the process of ac/dc in any meaningful way.

A perfect excuse that accounts for nothing and changes nothing in the need to produce.

If I were a radio I would not have legs to run or hands to touch and feel with. Unless I steal the needed parts and rewire their nature to fit my casing.

That idea has legs, doesn’t it?

Well so do I so perhaps I’ll put my ear to the ground and follow old lines back to sources kept young by exposure to novel currents.

And perhaps I’ll climb a tree and abuse my gadgetry to spy on the inner workings of madmen and geniuses.

And maybe I will finally know what those opaque-to-me wonders of the world are really thinking.Maybe I will finally know who you really are, and you will know the same of me.

We’ll transcribe our summaries and share them through the touch of flesh on flesh, word on word, and the breath of sound on the still night air. If I were a radio I would tune into human frequencies that my paltry human ears can never, ever hear.

Not even with a hearing aid. Not even in the dead of night when the world is supposed to be silent but is really just a different kind of noisy.

I am not a radio per se. Yet, yet—you are somehow one of my frequencies and I am one of yours.
Lucky bastards…

About Illian Rain

I write things. Lots of things.

17 Responses

  1. Damn I am glad to be one of the lucky ones. Your writings have hallucinogenic properties, yet as of today they remain legal in the entire Northern Hemisphere.

    And here is my approach, one that does credit to your work; I always read what you write twice. The first time, silently, as a form a reconnaissance. Get the lay of the land, so to speak, find out what is coming. Then the second time, I read it out loud. That’s where you can feel the raw power of the words. Weigh the choice of words, their order, their power, their sequential mystery, their gravid and mysterious truth.

    Normally this is at home, and all is well. However, today was a bit unusual. I did this in Panera Bread, in an overstuffed chair by the line to order food. Some of the people were shifting back and forth uncomfortably during the event, others seemed to get it. No one called the cops, and the manager, god bless him, didn’t say a word. Perhaps all the money he got from me during NaNoWriMo still weighs heavy in his pocket.

    A twenty-something dude with a beard gave me a thumbs up, and his gesture didn’t have even a hint of irony. Keep pouring out your words, amiga!!

    Liked by 2 people

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