Up early (5:15 on the computer clock as I write this)
Everything is quiet in the house
A single bird makes its presence known
through the window to my right
saying will, will, will, will,
in bunches of four to seven
Or is it saying still, still, still, still?
No matter, other birds have joined now
the call and responses are varied…
A plane sends a smooth vibration down
on its way to Jackson’s little airport
The sun will not be up for a few minutes
maybe an hour, I’m not sure
This is what I’m up for…
to register the morning
to treat it with respect
to measure and be mindful of living
to account for another night’s passing.
The only other sounds
Are my fingers clicking the keyboard
and my knee causing the roll-out computer desk to groan
All hell could be breaking loose right now
somewhere in the world
but the peaceful morning has me enthralled
as you sleep in your house somewhere
say over a garage
perhaps doing a technological rant
now a chainsaw,
next a window shade raising
then a Moog synthesizer synthesizing
in your bedroom, out of earshot to me
I wonder how much quieter a house can get
I suppose I will find out someday
But this piece is not about quiet
nor emptiness
But noise and its cousins
Tones are musical
sounds are neutral
noise is awful
Noise is that distant siren that interrupts
signaling you are not only among the living
but also the dying
A musical note, say from the clarinet
or a jew’s harp, messes with your ears
tweaks them playfully…
A sound comes in but receives no evaluation
because you are too busy to chart it
or it is close to unchartable
You may not even know what it is
But a noise pierces, arouses, lays hard on the mind
Is one of the active ingredients in paranoia
To the languishing spirit, virtually every tone,
sound, or thud, is noise
The woman who finds herself
in an adulterous affair or
embezzling from her employer
or just bleeding too much
may well have trouble hearing
the bird’s song as anything but an alarm
On the other hand
let someone dwell a while in a place of bliss
near hysteria, out where few go
besides those taking ecstasy or LSD
and it does not matter if the sound is
later-years Bob Dylan singing
it soothes, sending the spirit soaring southerly
Imagine (or actually do it, if you can)
living in a land where they don’t speak your language
In a café in Paris (France)
no matter how in love with the French you may be
let someone breathe your native English
and your ears will hear its beauty above dish clatter
chair scraping, and hotsy-totsy expensive conversation
You turn, seeking to connect with that sweet melodious voice
Is it that, yes, I’m afraid it’s that
dangerous looking Yank there under the hanging basket
You fight the urge to wander over
to learn just what part of Texas he’s from
But then you remember the mantra
“Don’t mess with Texas” and you think better of it
Texas is not a whole other country
France is a whole other country
Be that as it may
although they speak southwestern
down in Texas
it will sound like home
to the lonely traveling American ear
Noise: that which makes music sound so sweet
Noise: the hammer hitting the anvil in the stirrup
Noise: the signal’s main competition
Of course something so ubiquitous
would get turned into a metaphor
Noise: that clutter in the head that drowns out joy
We could go on this way
I suspect some of having so much noise up there
in the head I mean
that they must stay active
keeping something happening
relegating the disquieting
(listen to my loud string of ing words)
to the background
I have awakened on certain mornings
with a roar in my ears and wondered
if I will be this way forever
Is this the beginning of my undoing?
Will it only grow from here?
Maybe the final words on noise are these
Without it, life would be
just sound and fury, signifying nothing (original huh?)
The meaning of noise only becomes clear
as part of the flow of living
After the din of the madding crowd
and the gong goes goioioioioioiooiing
I want to curl up beside a crackling fire
with a good book and celebrate its end
To be thankful for the sense of hearing
and on occasion, the hard-earned sound of silence
You may be one of those people
I sort of hope you are
Emily Dickinson-like enough
To lie still and learn
As much as anything I know
I wish for that capacity in you
Not even the piercing scream
“Get up and do blah blah blah”
can change your essential nature…
a creature sensitive to the differences among
tone, sound and noise
May you always discern so well
Consider it your own special way to wisdom
