Thursday, December 08, 2011

I remember when we learned about our light, the way we are always glowing even though our eyes haven't yet figured out how to see it.

In my head when I think about sonoluminescence I pronounce it with an m instead of an n, unconsciously. As though we are sleeping when we create light from sound, and maybe we are. The thing I like best about sonoluminescence (aside from how the mantis shrimp makes it happen with its hands like bullets) is that although we know how it works we still don't really know why. Maybe it's because of thermonuclear fusion, or vacuums in the middle of bubbles, or something we haven't even invented yet. Whatever the reason, I like to think of us shouting secrets under the water, telling them in just the perfect way to make them a stream of light arcing almost across oceans. Staying secrets, but so lovely that we don't really mind. And then when we wake up not even remembering, but feeling satisfied, columns of light still hidden under our skin.

Except the only problem is that we don't live in water, we live in space, and we can't see the glow coming from our skin. This I find harder to reconcile. Still, it makes sense given all of the troubles that we have. Just standing there far apart, made of poetry and bones, shining softly and shouting secrets that turn into nothing at all.