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Unlike a Poetry Slam, Mutter Slams are for my benefit. They aren’t a performance but a creative release for the muttering voices that want acknowledgment. These voices are thoughts, first. Shadowy unembodied thoughts slip past the border of the mind without identification papers. I got wind of their existence when my knees stiffened up. I could no longer rush around, filling my time with getting things done. Instead, I began hearing a distant, muffled muttering in the back of my mind and dispatched a journalist to get the scoop.
The Newsflash story broke the next day about an isolated group of Mutterrers who chant and mutter around a fire that never dies. They have taken it upon themselves to keep the repressed voices alive until they can be honored through Mutter Slam. So, I invited the mystical group to the Mental Command Center, and they agreed to teach me the sacred Mutter Slam.
When my life revolved around accomplishment, I viewed negative thoughts as something to get rid of by burying them or containing and emptying them like garbage. I had no use for anything that got in my way. But, the Mutterers told me the repressed stories were not negative but a language for unlocking portals of deeper awareness. I had my suspicions. They brought their fire with them and tended it tirelessly, muttering and stirring a big pot of a potion they tasted from time to time. “Here,” they said, “take this phrase and practice.” I unfolded the slip of paper I received. It read If I Do It Right.
