In Defense of Escapism or An Essay on the Realization of the Fact that One Day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE

           Of course, as cliché as the idea is, and as uncomfortable as the topic might be to think about, it becomes painfully obvious as you get older that one day you are going to die. There is no way around it. We are all plummeting with terminal velocity towards that inevitable end. One day, out of the blue, “like a thief in the night”, and unexpectedly, (though it should be totally expected, since it is absolutely unavoidable) you will close your eyes for the last time, or you might keep them open, (that is to be determined in the future, whether near or far, by the unique circumstances of your specific wrestling match with the Reaper). Here’s a fun fact: according to the 2007 U.S. Census Bureau on World Vital Events, every single minute 105 people expire. On average, that’s 6,300 deaths per hour, 151,200 daily, 4,536,000 monthly, and 54,432,000 deaths in a year; (probably more now seeing as there are more people on the planet than there were in 2007). Nevertheless, it is making its way to you, or maybe you to it. Death is like jumping out of an airplane midflight: the better you can see the ground the closer you are to it. Make no mistake, the ground rapidly approaches, and there is nothing that you or anyone else can do about it. Nothing.

            Or maybe there is. I can’t help but think: life is about death. Life is about thinking about death all of the time. Isn’t it? I mean, even when we don’t think we are thinking about death I’d wager that we are. Sitting in a movie theater or watching sports or driving to work is no exception. Neither is playing video games, colon-cleansing, nor mowing the lawn, et cetera. This is a concomitant characteristic of being self-aware creatures. We are aware that we are alive, and we are aware that one day WE ARE GOING TO DIE. Other animals aren’t self-aware in the same way humans are, and this is obvious. They don’t ask themselves “hey, do you ever think about death?” Animals have a more unique understanding of death (I think). Of course I’m not talking about a scientific or philosophical understanding. I am thinking more along the lines of intuitively and instinctively. Like (most) every other being on this planet animals don’t want to die. In fact, most animals freak out at the slightest, out of the ordinary sound. E.g. the other day a UPS delivery person dropped off a package at my front door and then rang my doorbell. This happens a lot because I electronically order lots of stuff from various websites. Nevertheless, as I got up to fetch my goods, my emotionally compromised felines made severe haste for the nearest fortified hiding place, (which, since this is a frequent occurrence, is often times ridiculous: slamming kitchen cabinet doors, or flattening out to the size and shape of what can only be described as that of a flying squirrel, only to then—with extreme difficulty—slide under the Lazyboy® and hide, et cetera). My cats don’t think about the noise; they don’t even think about what they’re doing while freaking out because of the noise, which is why they slide across the hardwoods, slam into walls, stumble, flip, and flop awkwardly, and eventually flying-squirrel-like launch over obstacles in order to escape said noise. Instead, they react to what the noise might signify: possible harm and/or death. This reaction is natural. And hilarious.

            Think about the deer. Think about the deer that hears the gunshot and becomes immediately aware of a coincidental blazing and piercing pain in its side. The deer is not trying to link the two events. The dear is not like “well, hey. That’s curious.” The deer is not trying to deduce what the two events have in common in an associative manner. No. The deer bolts; it launches itself full speed into escape mode while trying (in vain) to outrun impending doom as if someone or some-thing had just lit its furry little butt on fire. All one can hope is that the shot is clean and that the deer hasn’t the time for anything other than an immediate and swift expiration. (Editorial aside): This is why I don’t hunt; I’m too emotional, and I’m too Buddhist-like about sentient life; (take note: I am not a Buddhist). Though I am undoubtedly aware of its necessity, that is, hunting, I understand that my ancestors had to hunt for survival. I also understand that the deer population has exploded, exponentially. But, baiting a small, square acre of land and sitting in a “blind,” all the while holding a high-powered, high-speed, and high capacity phallic-shaped dispenser of metal certainly is not hunting. Placing what the deer can only gather is a large, heavy, and clamorous botanical mystery that scatters some irresistible grain at specific intervals in the middle of their stomping ground is not hunting, either. Listen: I’m not making any moral claims here; don’t take it that way. I’m just trying to differentiate between what is hunting and what is baiting, (and there are certainly masters of both). However, I’m pretty sure that Ted Nugent hunts. So, for measurement one might consider directing one’s gaze at the Nuge for mastery over such ethical conundrums, (at least as far as sustainable and morally appropriate hunting is concerned) ← And, of course this is all assumption. 

            Speaking of hunting, (still) I gather that hunting is cathartic for some much like any other related sense-activity is as well. Loosely defined, sense-activity is any activity where one, well, uses his or her senses towards some end, particularly as an escape method for coping with that ultimate realization noted at the very beginning of this essay: that one day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. But there are all sorts of various sense-activities, of which even reading, writing, and thinking are also a part; (without getting into a Freudian hermeneutic regarding the idea of Displacement or Sublimation, I will note here that said terms, very simply put mind you, mean to trans- or dislocate a volitional drive thereby placing, channeling, or combining one activity on, through, or with another. Confused yet? Excellent). In short, we are all afraid of dying on some level or another, and we all try to escape this fear via catharsis, which is literally a purging (by way of displacing) that which is harmful to productive living. Whether a cat or a UPS delivery person; whether a deer, hunter, or a flying squirrel we are all freaking out, and we are all searching for the comforts of our very own Lazyboy®.

            Living room furniture notwithstanding, (though I cannot help but consider the phrase “living room” to be both ironic and apropos) this is what life is about: stuffing stuff into the time we have while gravity pulls us ever-so-faster and ever-so-closer to an indifferent patch of dirt, all the while being fully aware that we are alive and that one day we won’t be; (please keep any Cartesian comments to one’s own self as such comments might muddy up the already swamp-like conditions of this here essay. Also, swamps can be a good place to hunt). Don’t forget that Time is stuff just like Experience is also stuff. Too, Displacement and catharsis are both ways to cope with the fact that one day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE. So, spending time doing stuff is also stuff, and there are all kinds of other stuff to be considered: sentimental stuff, theological stuff, philosophical stuff, material stuff, aesthetic stuff, spiritual stuff, et cetera; it’s all stuff, really. It’s just different forms and flavors of stuff, and it all has to do with thinking about and coping with one’s own personal plunge towards planet earth. And it is here that we have finally reached the dénouement of this entire essay: that a person can only truly and totally be free if he or she eliminates all of the stuff that zooms past during freefall. But here’s the question: why would anybody want to do that? So, to do otherwise, that is, to detach oneself from what it truly means to be free is to realize that one day YOU ARE GOING TO DIE; it is to be helplessly and hopelessly attached to a universe that is constantly trying to hit the Eject Button mid-flight. Pay attention because here it is: This is what it means to be alive; this is what it means to live. So lift your nose to the air and take a deep breath. Stretch out your arms and legs flying-squirrel-like and realize that life is about that brief microsecond that you are allowed to fall. Listen to the wind batter your eardrums, and taste the rushing air as it fills your lungs. This is what it’s like to live, and there are no parachutes.

Some Haiku from me (to you).

Haiku is something everyone should try at least once in their lives. Not only is it fun, but it is also quite simple: the first line has five syllables, the second has seven, and then the third has five. Of course, the more traditional Japanese Haiku was a bit different, (that is, it was longer, usually written in conjunction with other poets, and it dealt with environment, Buddhist principles, seasons, et cetera). Nevertheless, the Haiku principle remains the same. Listen to the Haiku bellow (bellow as in roar, not below as in beneath [because that has one "L"]):

Fingernail clippings

Scattered on the hardwood floor

Look like little smiles.

Turn the faucet on

Wash my hands until they’re clean

Turn the faucet off

Dead armadillo

Scattered all over the road

Probably a Ford

Cold wind numbs the face

Hot wind parches the senses

Where does it come from?

Flowing through the veins

Blood is the river of life

Cells are tiny boats

Fifteen minutes left

Until the sun sets again

Same as yesterday

Birds chirping outside

Singing in sweet melodies

Makes my cat hungry

Playing my guitar

Moving up and down the frets

Wonder what’s for lunch

Everyone can write

Some just better than others

I wish I was “some”

Poem:

Lunacy or This is Just a Fancy Way to Describe a Sunrise

I saw

in her moonlit eyes

the tears

of the stars,

the ocean

of a scattered sky,

and the desire

to stay here, forever;

eyes fixed

upon that which cannot be measured,

waiting for the epic poem of Life

to fade from Virgin Violet to Ochre.

A One Week Journal.

Patch of Earth: A One-Week Journal in Early January (to be read all at once, or not).

                I’ve decided to fix my gaze upon a small patch of earth just outside of my home. For seven days I will visit and revisit the same three foot by five foot swath of earth in order that I might (if only for a microsecond) catch a glimpse of what this patch actually looks like. Why? Because I walk over, by, across, through, and in it every day.

 January 1^st:

          I see you, tiny ant, but I thought you were supposed to be sleeping right now. What a dead and rotting forest you have wandered into. Each blade of grass is a wire-brushed monument to be conquered. You have such a vast expanse before you; but where are you going? You only have to repeat this process a thousand times more. How long do you live? Can your hair-thin legs carry you so far? They are peculiar; those fuzzy alien-like appendages.
          I would have considered you a cliché to both Poetry and Nature before your microscopic legs carried you onto this patch of earth. How many poets have written about ants? How many poems are about ants? As many as there are ants to be sure! But what new history do these ant-poets strive to get across to the rest of the colony? Whatever it may be I say it is trite, for we already know that we’re small, and we already know that life is a struggle full of ups and downs, full of mountains and valleys, full of obstacles and oases, full of storms and calm, full of (enter cliché descriptors here). Indeed, I would have considered you a sorry metaphor, but I now see that it is you who propels the earth, and I am the cliché here.
          You are distracting me, tiny ant. For, though I am drawn to your liquid black body and your tantalizing, spiny legs, I am supposed to be watching this patch of earth, and I am to watch it that I might see what it actually looks like. I see you are struggling, tiny ant, just like that tired metaphor suggests; you and your minute entomological narrative. But, do not progress too much further, tiny ant, or else you will wander off of my patch of earth and cease to exist, for you tread ever-so-closely to the very edge of my focus and, just like every other poet-being on this planet, I am a narcissist and a pedant, and if you venture out of my line-of-sight you will disappear.

 January 2^nd:

          I’m sitting here inspecting the parched maw that is my patch of earth. The knife blades which were once lush and emerald are now tiny brittle fingers; fingers that yearn for drink, reaching for wisps of dew that will never quench; shriveled hands extended. Dusty wind combs the little brown wires, and cracks part the dirt, exponentially. Though I do notice that some sign of life does still exist here, for a faint hue of green; a diluted, muted shade of Pea tries to make its way through the burnt January veins, and a soft arpeggio of birdsong rides the dancing alabaster wind.

 January 3^rd:

          How wonderful it is to see a squirrel on this patch of earth, though I feel that it too might think I’m a cliché. It immediately finds an acorn; a tiny, improbable jewel woven into the winter-grass. So busy are its quick and delicate hands that it looks as if the squirrel is untangling a miniature, nut-brown ball of yarn. I wonder what it’s weaving. The squirrel hasn’t seen me yet because I have not moved from this spot, though as I pick up my pen it scurries ten yards; a safe distance for this particular type of bearded threat. It stands on its haunches, this small squirrel, with a muscular and silken sand-colored fur glistening in the bright midday rays, and it carries with it a potential oak tree. At this point in time the notion occurs to me that I have never seen a squirrel urinate or defecate. It also occurs to me that saying or writing words like urinate and defecate seem pompous, and I’m not entirely sure why. But, these words are accurate, for I cannot say that the squirrel goes to the bathroom, because it doesn’t, which isn’t to say that it can’t because it very well could; I’ve just never seen it.

 January 4^th:

          It’s night, but that great flashlight in the sky casts its ghost beams upon my small patch of earth. Jupiter hangs out just below and to the left of the moon, at least for now. I scan the ground and think how strangely things appear in diverse shades of light; everything is skeletal. It seems that different luminosities proscribe different awareness-es, that is, certain perceptions of things, different motions, and different visual frequencies. The once brown wires of grass are now seemingly opaque. They appear as if the glass hair of a dying elder: so brittle, yet so full of wisdom and experience that you would certainly try to avoid crushing it with your feet.
          I also seem to think differently under the satin black sheet of night. I feel more attuned to my insignificance. Everything is painted in melancholy; a shade of loneliness that only owls can sympathize with. The cold waft of wind is the sighing earth, and the billions of stars are really just pinhole-punctures; they’re breathing holes for those of us trapped in this colossal cosmic box. The light comes from the outside: we hunger for it, and we can only see it at night. But, then again, this is night; this is when souls are meant to flutter in dream, i.e., in phantasmagoria. This is when souls are meant to sleep. To be sure, there is definitely a sense in looking at my patch of earth, but I am mesmerized, for there is a greater sense in looking at that hovering, black-canopied ceiling while wondering if this is all just a dream.

January 5^th:
          I walked across my patch of earth today and paid it no mind, which is something I do more often than not. I don’t really see what’s there; I only drag across it with an oblivious and predictable gait. I am distracted by the camaraderie of commerce. I am occupied by the beatitudes of busy-ness, rather than nourished by the renewing solicitude of Nature. I have a short and incapacious memory, but how can one not? Shiny things are everywhere, and sirens hypnotize us. Honestly, the only reason I’ve paid so close attention to my small patch of earth thus far appertains to poetic obligation. I feel as though I see this patch of earth better in the framework of my own imagination: a representation of the real tends to be more pleasing than the real per se: the imagined real is more real than the real real, (whatever that means I’ll leave to the imagined reader, really). But, this tangent proves my very point! I am distracted too easily. I guess I’ve become complacent. I guess I should go back and pay my respects to that patch of earth; I imagine it would want me to.

January 6^th:
          It’s another day that the eyes of the sun burn through us puny earthlings. I can feel its lasers on the back of my neck. It’s no surprise to me that my patch of earth seems etched and desiccated, for what relief that has come seems mythical at best. Though I find myself at least optimistic: rumors of precipitation hang in the balance, albeit delicately.

 January 7^th:

          The grass is still dormant, and cracks still wander the ground, for life is stubborn; it takes its own time to recover, (or to develop). But this should be no surprise, really, for such is the progression and sustenance of the natural order of things, each element of which depends upon its antecedent; a cog in that great, mystical, universally-varied, and mechanical hierarchy we call Nature.

 January 8^th:

          I’m not sure how one could ever get bored of looking at things of nature; it is so creative and industrious. The parched ground in front of me cracks so that even infinitesimal traces of moisture can reach the depths, and the roots there are thankful. Nature is a wonder. But this is a complex idea. Is my patch of earth really nature? I mean, I’m not sure if this grass is even native to the area in which I live. Just because a thing of nature exists within or utilizes a network of artifice does not make the thing itself natural even if it is behaving, well, naturally. We have corralled dying ships to rebuild dying corals; this is not natural. Nature does not preserve herself in this way. Or maybe she does: is guilt natural?
          I take my eyes off of my patch and glance around to other houses nearby. I see a variety of species of different grasses. Is this natural? Or is this just a human byproduct: trying to organize and reform that which was once natural. I understand that this entire area was long ago a massive grassland, but such a vastness confounded the narrow vision of humanity. If humans see no pattern, then pattern must be created, just like one looks to the night-sky and sees a lion here or a triangle there. But these things do not exist, not even in nature; they are just ideas impressed upon celestial dust, and it is only when these events or ideas are given names that they truly exist, for it is here and only here that such events and ideas are called into being, (ex Nihilo, Nihil fit).
           I look around and I see grids and squares of grass, which, in all honesty, are just larger versions of my own small patch of earth. Is this natural? Is human nature natural? Maybe. As I walk to my mailbox I cross my small patch of earth. This is my small patch of earth, and I’m not sure what it really looks like, but I do know that we all live on small patches of earth, just like the earth is a small patch of the universe. I wonder what it looks like.

The Agencies of Advertising

          The grey walls of my bedroom are awash with flickering television lights, yet again. They are the same color I imagine the deadlights of Stephen King’s It to be. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if It was a commentary on the decadent nature of media in the United States. Think about it: the book is about a clown, (something that is supposed to exude cheer; something harmless and colorful that is meant to entertain) yet a clown who torments children at first, but then who resurfaces in their adult lives and manifests all sorts of evils; It kills some of them while permanently scarring all of them. It is a convoluted, psychological superstructure and commentary on the nature of visual entertainment in American Culture, that or it’s just a horror book about a creepy clown. Whatever, that is something to be taken up with Stephen.

           Nevertheless, it sits in front of me: the TV, and I stare into the dead fish eyes of various personalities who are pushing some drug or selling some ornament. And, though I know their tricks, it becomes painfully obvious to me that I cannot turn away; I’m sucked in just like those who stare into Pennywise’s deadlights. They say I’ve lost something, these TV personalities. They say that I’m inadequate in some shape or form. They say my life will be better if I choose this tub of butter-like-substance-yet-not-quite-butter-like-substance. They say if I drink this alcoholic beverage I will look fabulous in suits, have perfect teeth, and that I will be astute and articulate while speaking in the public arena, which I’m quite certain is definitely not the case. Most of the time I’m not sure what they are even talking about because I’m too focused on picking out the logical inconsistencies and gargantuan lies that make up everything on television, but then I ask myself: who are “they”?

           Truthfully, I’m not sure who “they” are, but “they” continue to vomit platitudes and banalities at me, they continue to wave shiny things in front of my face to distract me much like the illusionist who saws in half the taut and tanned midsection of a top-heavy supermodel, while sneaking a tiger through the backdoor, all on the order of selling to me and the audience this crazy idea that, if properly distracted, we might shell out hundreds of dollars to be a part of this elaborate lie. We know that even the most surgically genius of our species cannot saw anyone in half without making a huge mess, we know that tigers don’t appear naturally out of thin air, walk down the red-carpeted, white-lighted aisle just to sit down to play a handful of overtly eager volunteers in Five Card Stud. What is it about human nature that needs to be distracted and tricked? What is it about human nature that desires to suspend its disbelief?

            I feel it, though: this inadequacy. I feel as if I have lost something. I’m always trying to stuff stuff into this quixotic version of my world. I’m constantly trying to cram ideas into this ideal version of myself, which is probably the same self I see when looking into a mirror, (a self that looks nothing like the self I see in videos or pictures of me, something to think about perhaps when writing a more Lacanian essay, but, then again, maybe this is a Lacanian essay; maybe they’re all Lacanian essays. Whatever). But, I feel that I have also gained something; something sacred like a divine hatred for the Grand Distraction, that is, commercials, advertisements, and the illusionists of our meta-modern era; they are legion, and they are omnipresent. Yet, part of me also wants to be tricked, so what do I do? I watch my television with an incensed and epileptic fervor.

             Somewhere deep inside every human exists an innate desire for the bliss of ignorance. Though Socrates is purported to have said that “the unexamined life is not worth living,” I’m not sure how he would react to the modern abundance of ways to examine oneself, save maybe slamming a Hemlock smoothie. This is something inexorable and incurable, that is, this constant examination. And, without sounding too cliché, I’d like to mention that this must be a byproduct of those godforsaken deadlights, of which everyone is not only subject to, but dumbfounded by. Unfortunately, there exists no salve, no panacea. Instead, only coping mechanisms exist, some of which are more elaborate than the illusionist's Grand Distraction. In fact, some people have developed methods for coping with such a predicament: muting the sounds and closing the eyes, mimicking the deist god who patrols deaf and dumb through ethereal dark matter, all the while planets collide and people raise their angry fists towards the unmindful heavens. Others manage to change the channels as if the omnipotent and jealous God of the Old Testament, i.e., creating and destroying worlds and universes by sheer will alone, (that and a trigger happy thumb, an image itself which connotes a specific kind of hilarity). But this takes its toll on already overactive brains. Those of us who have a penchant for presets end up changing the channel so many times that we just catch glimpses of shows; we just catch bits and pieces of ideas and images. And, since our minds already border on hyper-transience, the speed at which we surf the channels is enough of an ocular exercise to massage ADD into mouth-foaming, tongue swallowing, grand-mal seizuring bliss, which is probably what we wanted all along, (I must also admit, though, is not only entertaining in its own right, but a deserved consequence of succumbing to the deadlights).

          But, I feel that an absurd amount has already been written about the vast desert of ontological philosophy, especially regarding the consequences of different forms of media, so I won’t continue. I don't, after all, want to sound too preachy. Besides, my favorite show is about to come on; the one where the cat finally learns how to decipher the genomic code, but he can’t tell anyone because he's a cat; "they" say it's a must see television event, and I don't want to miss that. 

Sheepless Nights

As I lie here in my bed trying ever-so-unsuccessfully to fall asleep, an image of a sheep is burned into my mind. Thirty seconds ago I was surfing the channels on my television and decided to just turn it off. So I did, and then I grabbed a book from the insurmountable pile beside my bed. There was no math behind my landing on this particular channel; I just felt the urge to power off the tube at this particular point in time. As I hit the POWER button, I watched as a lone sheep stared into the camera and jawed at the intrusion of its pastoral domain.

                At least twenty minutes pass before I realize that I haven’t opened the book I grabbed from the pile. Honestly, I have no idea which book I’m even holding. Instead, I’m imagining what that lone sheep was trying to tell me as I hit the POWER button on the remote control. I imagine its pink jowls as they munch on air; the sheep asking whether or not I’ve ever counted its relatives as an aid for falling asleep. Maybe I’ve done it once or twice, but most of the time I just think about imponderables, which is a phrase that both makes me giggle as well as leads me to the inexorable conclusion that I do some of my best thinking when I’m winding down the day. Apparently, I don’t count sheep. I converse with them.

                As I mull over the above claim of whether or not I actually do my best thinking as I wind down, I turn to my side and place the unopened book back on top of the ridiculous pile, which I imagine will remain as such for at least six months, untouched. I grab my trusty scribble pad and pencil, and I write: Do I really engage in my “best thinking” at the end of the day? This is an interesting question. I guess the accuracy of such a declaration is contingent upon what I mean when I write (or even consider) a phrase such as “best thinking.” Is imagining a talking sheep really the best? I’m not sure how to measure such thinking, or what standard I should use to do so effectively, but as I lay here and ponder, I notice that the lone sheep has wandered again into the forefront of my mind. For some unknown reason a stupid, quasi-comedic cliché pops out of the sheep’s chomping mouth: “I count humans when I can’t sleep.” I sigh at the terrible and predictable joke. Whatever, I’m tired, but the joke does lead me to question its motivation.

                What type of thinking is this? It certainly doesn’t feel like a productive time of thinking. I’m not really solving any problems or figuring out any equations. In fact, it is quite the opposite: I’m just lying here, juggling meaningless words and ideas for no benefit and no real reason at all save to lull myself into that wondrous state where sleep might whisk me away. So, certainly this thinking is not my “best thinking,” but by writing the previous sentence I have convinced myself that such thinking is indeed productive, especially since the end goal of this particular type of thinking is to fall asleep. Of course, since I am in such a tired state, I could be completely wrong, and everything that I think could just be discombobulated ingredients in a casserole of nonsense, which is probably the most accurate thing I’ve thought of thus far.

                In my notebook I write: What does it mean to think productively?  Since I am trying to wind down, it might be that I’m misinterpreting what it means to be productive, because the action of sleeping is quite the opposite, that is, sleeping is unproductive. I don’t do anything while I’m asleep. However, if I am unsuccessful in achieving this requisite state of sleep, then I certainly cannot hope to be very productive the next day, nor can I expect to have the strength or stamina to do my “best thinking,” either. So, maybe this thinking really is, in all actuality and in all honesty, the best. And, maybe this “best thinking” really is the most productive of all seeing that my potential for future thinking is greatly dependent upon whether or not I get the required amount of sleep.

                As I stare at these two questions in my notepad, I begin to draw the body of a sheep, which I can tell you appears nothing like it should; it’s more like a muscular and sentient cloud than anything sheep-ish.  I try again, but to no avail. All that I am capable of drawing is ugly ungulates, or repulsive ruminants. I am no artist, and apparently I am no thinker, either. I can see now (both literally and figuratively) that I have spent entirely too much time on this subject of thinking, so much so that I will undoubtedly be completely exhausted tomorrow, which proves to me that this “best thinking” is some of the worst that I have ever done, and counting sheep has never looked so good.

Metaphor

Letters are weird.

They’re just symbols, really.

They just represent things;

things like ideas and sounds.

What do ideas sound like?

What if I were to write an idea like this:

                                                                                  SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS?

How would you read that?

What does this idea sound like?

Does it sound as if the hissing tongue

of hot oil is licking at the lips of tempered steel?

Or do you pronounce every individual letter,

sound for susurrus sound,

as if a soft, plastic pinwheel is

lightly brushing the cheek of a child?

Listen:

This is just an idea,

and these are just letters telling you so.

But I wonder: what does it sound like?