Rage

Below the easily penetrable surface of tissue and skin deep veins, the molten force of red rage continues to churn. The energy is easily replenished. As the visions of metallic structures and vibrating roller coasters still linger in my consciousness, my body is awakened to the sound of glass bottles being dumped into a large container. One by one, the little man sorts the colored glass. Clink, clink, the monotonous rhythm continues. The sound is familiar, twice weekly he comes and stirs my slumbers with the sound of bottles crashing. Today, each sound reverberates strongly. Each clink is a tap on the structure of my sanity. The solitude of my chamber is affronted…sounds come from all directions. A man walks up and down the ramp beside my window. The ongoing construction project has lasted more than a year, and today, he is here, with power tools and saws and a Spanish speaking assistant.
I hear the jingle of a brass bell, it’s the sound of Marlyn coming through the garage door. When she’s here, it’s her musical accompaniment. Through the closed door in the hall, through the closed door to my room, I hear that light tinkling, then the ever-present sound of her voice… "Danny….Daniel…" The boy doesn’t answer. He’s only ten feet away from her, but he doesn’t answer, and she calls him again, only this time louder. "Daniel! What do you want to eat?" No response. He is playing with his legos. Sorting through big plastic tubs of assorted pieces. He throws unwanted parts onto the wooden floor, they bounce and go flying across the room, littering the living room with dings and clacks of sound. He makes police siren noises as he plays. "Danny!´ she shouts.
My door is closed, the hallway door is closed, and I can still hear everything. The construction worker has entered the house, his deep voice calls for Marlyn; a moment later he is opening the hallway door, shattering the remains of my silence. His footsteps are loud, echoing. He needs the electrical outlet in my hallway and strings the extension cord through the open bathroom window to the ramp outside. The bathroom window is open, and the two workers are only steps away. I am too shy to use the bathroom, not wanting to create perverted fantasies for them. The Russian already caught me midway through my morning routine, he walked up and down the ramp beside my open window. I could feel his presence as though he were inside, watching me like a flickering movie screen. Anger rises.
This is my home and I’ve nowhere to escape these noises. I try to move forward, lighting incense and practicing my music, but the sound of their hammer tapping on metal distracts me from the beat I am following. I want to cry, I want to scream.
Instead, I walk to the kitchen with a sour face, spewing negative emotions in my wake. I walk, I take my camera and I walk. I stop to smell some orange roses in full bloom. The water fountain has especially strange moss patterns. Halfway down the block, I can still hear the sound of the electric saw. I can sense the smell of tar. My head begins to ache. I cannot see them, but somewhere close by, there are men repaving the road. The smell has carried on the wind, and its toxic power rolls upon me like black waves.
I feel my sadness returning. I turn to a crack in the road and admire its shape. Every street I turn down, there are sounds that assault my sensitive senses. A motorcycle whips through the corner, its muffler cut to create the maximum amount of noise disturbance possible, he accelerates and I jump with a sudden surge of fear. I get in my car to find some sanity, perhaps the beach would be good, nothing there but crashing waves…ahhh, but this old man in front of me, he drives without purpose, slowly and aimlessly, causing me to catch every red light on the way. I am boiling, cooking in this redness.