03 December, 2005
houseArrest

there are times, like this one, when the noise stops.
a rarity, here... music of one source or another is vibrating through the speaker cones, almost constantly.
that, or the barrage of televised spasticity.

i can't recall when i paused the anime i'd gotten in the mail, today...sometime before i had to ignite the kerosene heater on the back porch, as the mercury sagged. and then clopped back downstairs for a last look at the just-dried paint on granddad's chairs in the chilly basement.

silence. so stark that it was like drinking an icy glass of water on a hot day... a searing, crystal-clear moment. it almost hurt, like your fillings would twang when icewater met tooth.

but it wasn't silent. after all. there's the drone of the refrigerators' compressor. the whine of the fan from the PC in the other room. that high-frequency mosquito-pitch skree of the TV.

and traffic, way down at the bottom of the hollow... bouncing off of the "mountain" off to the north, and backwashing up the hill, through trees and undulations like a murky tide of sound waves. you could almost think it was souls speaking, unintelligbly... the lilt so akin to words, spoken. some orating soliloquies, other singing Gregorian chants... others shreiking.

Goddamn, this winter is going to suck the soul out of me, if i don't watch out. and Christmas is shaping up to be an ordeal-for-one.

it's a month of solitude, now. i'm comfortable enough to leave dishes unwashed, overnight... tools next to the back door, until i can stow them away better, in daylight... mail, unopened on the glass coffeetable... because i don't feel like i'm living in a barracks of unpleasantness, anymore. keeping my the impact of my presence to a bare minimum.

no, this is better. no suffering. no recriminations. no ghosts. no nothing at all... unless i prime the pump by removing my ass from the futon, or this computer chair, and make something. fix something. clean something. just moving. maybe, one day, this will translate to the drawing table.
much better, this, than the want-to-sleep-all-the-time phase. studiously avoiding contact. blinds drawn and doors locked tight. spiralling inward. waiting to hit bottom. how-low-can-you-go.

i could find all of that in the silence, if i wanted to. there's plenty of time for that when the lights really go out. and that would be the bottom.

i feel this umbilical cord withering. the things that tied me to this particular place and time, withdrawing imperceptibly. the sap's receding, and the leaves are memories. as they should be.

.