Monday, September 9, 2013

Silence Turned Up High

Smile. Words – the visual elixir to my silence. Today's reading brought about an emotional entourage, with a touch of too much reality thrown in like a pinball machine in an arcade TILT. In a good way, in a bad way, in a this-is-your-life waygentle memory shakers.  Silence, my two-fold blessing curse, even after all these years I still haven’t figured out which. The dichotomy? Curses can bless us in the strangest ways.

I see depths.

 photo 92311146lV2tZE3.jpg
(picture from here)

The branch sways in tender protest, as leaves tug autonomously, waving in the winds breakers. On a tree's topmost limb, deeper still, a tawny squirrel flag tics, tiny wind surfer with a branch for a board. With each breeze the twig vaults higher, small claws grasp for the elusive last pear of the season. A diminutive damp nose twitches with success. Below my feet squish in the sweet rot aroma of fallen discards.

3-D perception is a dance of silence in visual cadence. Would I choose this, to hear with words, to visualize the unspoken eloquence of movement against a soundless tapestry of thoughtperhaps? There are days I want to hear a mischievous squirrel’s bellyaching chitter as they rappel from one branch to another. I want to hear the sound crabapples or pears make with a suicide pact as they pinball against branches, to bounce against a wood fence and hard earth. More than anything, I would give it all up to hear the rain fall. Small visual etiquettes with a soundboard

I see depths, beyond sound in the deeper silence of the heart. My eyes turn up the volume. Everyone has at least one ‘what-if’.  Would this word espouser, see so clearly if I heard? Blessing or curse, does it matter in the long run.  To quote Anne Lamont, “The most subversive, revolutionary thing I could do was to show up for my own life and not be ashamed.” To show up and own who I am, as a person, as a writer, and let others hear the essence of my worded silence. Subversive, revolutionary.

No matter how many times, I question my deafness or find fault with the silence, my words smooth the jagged edges of a soundless life.  No curse finds beauty strewn among the broken places. I hear one word at a time in each indelicate perception within echoes of movement. So yes, I do show up for my life, in so many words. And I would be remiss if I didn’t share the brain fodder which espoused this bit of introverted prose:


Rain, you said, was silence turned up high.
It has been raining now for days.
Even when it stops
there is still the sound,
of rainwater labouring
to find some way into the ground.

We lie in grim embrace: these
two halves trying to be whole, straining
for this break in the static,
in the white noise
that was rain falling
all day and all through the sheeted night.

Silence is rain with the sound turned down,
And I stare out on a clear view
of something left out on the line:
a life, snagged there_
drenched, shrunken,
unrecognisably mine.
~Robin Robertson

Thanks to a dear friend Diana Matisz for introducing me to his work.  ~ Indigo