A vaunk (funk) o’fire.
Photo: Earth, Wind and Fire - Freedom of Choice
I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately.
Writing this post, I go down an internet rabbit hole as I start thinking about the word funk, and what it means. I say the word out loud - fuh-nk - and observe how it feels in my mouth. It is such a funny sounding word, and as I read, I realise that it has such a range of meanings and an even stranger etymological journey.
While the word funk initially referred (and sometimes still refers) to a strong odour, it is originally derived from the Latin “fumigare” (to smoke) via Old French “fungiere”. The trajectory of this word fascinates me - from being a grey smokey substance to being used to describe an unpleasant scent, to being a catch-all word to describe a genre of music, to being a (generally) unpleasant state of being…
Used as both a noun and a verb, it could be any of the following, according to the Oxford English Dictionary:
[noun]
“A powerful, unpleasant smell, esp. a pungent, earthy, or musky odour of sweat or other bodily excretions; a stink”;
“Thick smoke; a mass or cloud of this”;
“A style of popular music of African American origin, based on elements of rhythm and blues, jazz, and soul, and characterized by a prominent, repetitive bass line and a propulsive, heavily syncopated rhythm that typically accentuates the first beat in the bar, with other instruments such as guitar, keyboards, and brass used primarily to provide a rhythmic counterpoint.”;
“A cowardly, nervous, or timorous person”;
“A spark”;
“A state or fit of gloom, bad temper, depression, irritation, etc.”
[verb] (transitive or intransitive):
“To smoke tobacco; (also) to emit smoke”;
“To suffocate or annoy with smoke; to blow smoke upon (a person). Also: to offend with a strong smell.”
“To rot, spoil, or become mouldy”;
“To play or dance to funk music; to introduce elements of funk into the performance of a song, piece of music, etc.”
“To excite or thrill (a person), esp. with music.”
All of this to say - no prizes for guessing how I’m using the word here.
So I have been exhibiting all these characteristics - “a state of gloom, bad temper, depression, irritation etc”- lately. Years of therapy have taught me that this is probably a specific combination of my own decisions and life life-ing. P is convinced that my funk is a result of not having a space to get the “rage out from my body”; recently, in a bid to give my mind and body some rest, I have decided to take a break from Muay Thai. While my love affair with martial arts continues to burn bright, my post-cancer body has firmly decided that it needs to do a little less during this season, so that I can do the things I have already committed to, better, without driving myself to the ground.
Because, if you know me, you know that this is a particular superpower of mine - turbocharging through life until I find myself ground to the bone, an unattractive pile of ash-grey powder.
Years of therapy have taught me that while I may not necessary be able to completely reverse this (and increasingly, I’m not sure that I want to, because this *is* my superpower and I don’t use that word lightly), I can become better at seeing the signs of the funk setting in, and apply the breaks with just about enough time to prevent a full-on collision (or in my case, a meltdown).
And so here I am, watching the fugue settle in, applying my breaks like my life depends on it, and carrying around a state of gloom and bad temper that feel like the bitter aftertaste of spoilt fruit in my mouth. Or should I say, a funked fruit.
===
Recently, I participated in a breast cancer advocacy event as one of the two women who had been diagnosed with and treated for cancer. It was probably one of the larger crowds I have spoken to; participants of this event included a mix of caregivers, patients and survivors (not a word I generally like to use, but let’s just roll with it here). While it was a facilitated conversation, it felt more like a sharing circle, as the other participant and I spoke about our individual experiences. Listening to the stories and anecdotes shared by the caregivers, patients and survivors who were present, reminded me that suffering is truly such a universal and democratic experience. There were people there who were young like me and had already gone through rounds and rounds of treatment; others who were much older and just beginning their perilous journeys of healing. There were caregivers who had lost their loved ones to the disease and were still working their way through grief; there were others who, like me, after being caregivers themselves, were now reckoning with cancer in their bodies.
Story upon story upon story upon story.
It is easy to believe, when you are in the thick of things, that your experience alone is the worst, incomparable, truly devastating. And then you realise - this is the breaking through of the veil - that this is not really the case. The funk (thick smoke, a mass of cloud of this, noun) clears a little, the light peeks through and there it is, that little elusive thing called perspective.
Years of therapy have taught me that when Little Ms Perspective comes fluttering by, it will do one good to be on alert for something else - a quick fleeting realisation. Often times, this realisation can be about all kinds of things, but in my case, as I sat there listening and holding space during this sharing circle - it was this - that life is a state of chaos of both the good, and the bad, of experiences that lift and destroy, of beginnings and endings.
This realisation doesn’t necessarily make me feel better, but it does make me feel less worse, kind of like a spark of light, or something. Or you know, a vaunk (funk) o’fire.
===
S comes by in the evening, and as is usually the case, we dive right into talking about the fun stuff. Like…death. This is what I love and admire the most about S, one of the few people I know who treads this fine line of light and darkness, and cackles through it all. There is a defiance to S that I wish I had, a defiance, I know, that has come about after years of reckoning with what life and death mean.
But I get ahead of myself.
The candles are lit and S, P and I are munching on edamame as we lounge at the dining table. We discuss what is worse - to have a death that comes slowly with age and the definitive denigration of the body, or an unexpected death in the prime of one’s life. To lose the function of one’s body while the mind remains, or to lose one’s mind as the body wastes away.
After sharing a personal story, S says, it makes me wonder, what is the point of this life. What is the point of this life, of doing anything at all, when…it all fades away to black at the end of it.
I have no good answer. Yet, I say, death, and disease, are democratic. There is no running away. There is no fighting. There are no exceptions. If it is your time, then it is your time. No money, no power, no fame, no beauty - nothing can stop it from happening.
I talk about a memoir I’m currently reading - Here After by Amy Lin. In brief, one day, Kurtis, Amy’s husband, goes to run a half-marathon with her family and dies unexpectedly. I share with S and P about the ways in which Amy writes about her grief, about navigating the world as the person who is left behind. But, but, I say. Perhaps, there is something to be said in being the one who leaves on such a high note, at the peak of life.
We fall into silence.
S leaves soon after, but our conversation continues to linger in my mind.
What *is* the point of this life, if it all just kind of…ends. If there is a pandemic of suffering and pain. Why do we do all the things we do - work so hard, exercise so much, fret over wordings in emails, frantically pay bills, travel manically across the world, consume consume consume. Whatever for?
I suppose the point is….that there is no point. I suppose the point is…whatever you want it to be. To find something that helps you get through the days until the days are no more. To procreate, so that you leave your legacy behind in blood and flesh. To create art that spreads joy, beauty, meaning. To love deeply and to be deeply loved in return so that even when you’re gone, the thought of you gets passed on, wrapped in a bubble of the best type of feeling, a rose-coloured memory. To be a fond story that gets folded into the fronds of stories that are shared from one bright-coloured mouth to another. Etc, etc.
It is both terrifying and freeing, this. Terrifying, because you must constantly check your internal compasses and navigate the seas, because you’re steering this ship of your life. Freeing, precisely for this reason. Because you’re steering this ship and you get to decide what that looks like.
You get to decide what is the point of it all.
Right on cue, the song on my funk playlist changes and Earth, Wind & Fire come on, crooning:
“You got the freedom of choice
You got to hold and speak with your voice
You got the freedom of choice
You got to hold on and speak with your voice”
Interesting