“It all started with: I want to show you my recording.”
Of course it always does.
It was one of those days: hubby decided he wanted to publish his first audio recording.
Not his essay. Not his words. Not the stuff he actually wrote in his own voice.
No.
He picked Invictus.
Because apparently every man, at some point, has to claim the title Captain of the Ship / Master of the Soul like it’s a federally-issued license and not a poem written by a Victorian man who was literally dying of tuberculosis and had every right to be dramatic.
But here’s the problem.
Invictus is not a neutral audition piece.
Invictus is a cultural landmark. It’s been read by actors with cheekbones insured for millions, motivational speakers in black turtlenecks, and every YouTube video that starts with a slow-motion cat stalking through smoke while a man yells about discipline. The cat just casually glanced at him, flicked its tail once and kept moving.
Invictus already has a “voice” attached to it—whether you want it to or not.
So when a normal human tries to read it, they do what normal humans do when confronted with Great Poetry:
They overperform. They put on THE Narrator Voice. You know, the one. Yes — that one.
They slow down too much, like each period is a funeral and every sentence has to die with dignity. They end every line like a fish just flopped onto the dock and gave up on life.
And then the listener—me—has to do emotional paperwork at speed.
Because every time a fish died (roughly every two minutes), I had to speed‑scribble an obituary just to keep up.
Not for the fish.
For the sentence.
So I listened to his recording.
And I nearly self-inflicted pain by jabbing my eardrums with a coffee stirrer.
Not because he’s bad. Not because his voice is awful.
Because he wasn’t reading.
He was performing.
And Invictus is the kind of poem that tricks you into thinking performance is required.
It’s not.
It’s just poetry.
It’s a man saying, “I’m still here,” with a little Victorian flourish.
Hand the hankie over here.
Which is fine. I respect it.
But I also respect my own nervous system.
So I told him the truth.
I said:
“Listen. If you’re the person who’s willing to listen to your own voice 50 times in two days, on loop, and you don’t end up developing Long-Term Self-Loathing Syndrome… then you’re ready to publish audio.”
Because that’s the real test.
Not “Do I sound good?”
But:
“Can I tolerate myself without wanting to peel my pinky toenails off with a butter knife?”
That’s audio readiness.
That’s character.
That’s survival.
And he didn’t pass.
Not with Invictus.
Avian Victorian faint gone wrong.
He insists Invictus has to be his first audio publication because he loves the captain line.
He loves the idea of being in control of his own life.
Which… yes. That’s sweet.
But also:
Sir, the ship is currently being steered by the Wi‑Fi router and a broken printer.
Let’s relax.
Anyway, back to the fish. So here’s the compromise…
If you want Invictus to live on the porch, fine.
But it’s not coming in as a motivational poster.
It’s coming in as a relic.
An artifact.
A reminder.
Something personal.
Because that’s what poems are supposed to be—not a performance, but a pocket-sized anchor.
So if Invictus gets published here, it will come with a warning label.
Something like:
“Here’s Invictus. Hubby is narrating it. And remember: I did remind you there are a thousand ways to die without technically harming yourself.”
Because that’s the porch truth.
You can die a thousand small deaths by:
- listening to someone’s over-serious narrator voice
- watching them end every sentence like the last breath of a wounded fish
- trying to sound inspirational when you could just sound human
Invictus isn’t bad.
It’s just been overplayed.
And what I’m not about to do is let it stomp into my playlist like it owns the place.
So I evicted it.
Right into the porch.
No drama. No swelling music. No cats in the fog.
Just a man, reading a poem, trying to remember he’s still here.
And me, on the side, making sure we all survive the experience with our eardrums intact.