Listen to the Sounds of Silence

Late night again.

I think I like writing in the quiet of the night. I had some odd experiences today.

I was waiting by an elevator with an older woman who unexpectedly started talking to me:

(I smiled and said hello)

"You know, just one more day and it's the weekend. I'm so tired."

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"In fact, I took two mental health days last week"

(thinking: Look close, is she holding anything sharp? Do you really want to get on the elevator with her? Come on, it's just a few floors down, and there are the stairs...) "Really?"

"Yes--I just stayed in my pajamas and read a couple of books and stayed inside all day"

"That sounds nice, actually"

"I never get any 'me' time, now that my parents have moved in with me"

(thinking: they must be 100 years old)(isn't that ugly to think?)

"I know exactly what you mean."

And suddenly I did.

Then I remembered how inspired I was during and after my recent trip to Maine. I laughed at myself thinking what in the world about the ocean and mountains and birch trees, for God's sake, made me come home and crank out 150 pages of observations and thoughts in seven days?

It wasn't the scenery. It was the solitude.

I couldn't do it forever, but it was nice to have some down time to myself to just gather my thoughts in private without a soundtrack of kids, work, cell phone, fax machines, computer boot-ups and shutdowns, the AOL guy telling me "You've got May-ul", the Sesame Street theme song running through my head, a car engine, Ipod mixes, talk radio, and my own incessant chatter.

After a couple of days, against my will I experienced silence and solitude, and it was inspiring. It made me think about who I am. That can be a scary experience--open your mind and pay attention to what you receive in your thoughts...

Another odd experience today: I walked into an office of an acquaintence, again an older woman in her late 60's, that I've known for about two months. Actually met her about 7 or so times, and I thought she was being a little chilly toward me. Her mother died a few weeks ago and I sent a quick note with my condolences.

When I walked into her office, she held her arms out to hug me and said "Mike, I need a hug--my mother died."

I froze. Then hugged her.

The I felt so terrible that it wasn't my first instinct to have compassion for her. I was more worried that I was sweaty from coming in from the 100-degree heat 15 minutes ago. I had two bags in my hands. I have a hard time hugging people that I don't know well--really hugging them. I can always do it as a joke, or if I disassociate myself from it, but not really. Yeah, I'm weird that way.

It made me wish that it was my first instinct to have compassion and be genuine about acting on it. It made me feel like a phony that it was so easy to send a quick note but when I should do something, I hesitated.

It made me wish I was a better person than I am.

Then I contemplated my writing, and it depressed me. It really pisses me off that I don't have the skills to convey all the thoughts that I have--concisely. It reminds me of my daughter Kaitlyn, who is learning to talk--sometimes she gets frustrated and just bellows out gibberish because she can't form the words that she wants to. We patiently decipher what she says--if you've made it this far into the rambling, that's what you're doing, too.

I read about this camera company that is making a device to record an entire experience--you wear it like a backpack and it records sounds, video and still images from different angles, and even collects air in a vial so you can experience the smells from your recorded event. To me, that's what writing is supposed to be--skilled writing, anyway.

I have some interesting friends that I want to write about, but I just can't do it. My words can't sufficiently encapsulate their essence--only a brief window, like bringing something into focus for just a fleeting, tangential moment. To try to do this would be a slight to them because I would inevitably leave something out.

When Faulkner wrote "The Sound and the Fury", he tells the story from 4 different vantage points. To summarize his explanation, he wrote that he tried to have one character write it, then another, then the last one. Finally, the 4th version is written in 3rd person, which represents Faulkner as the omniscient author. He stated that he still wasn't sure that the story was completely told to his satisfaction. I guess I am in good company by feeling this way, though I obviously don't compare...

But this makes me wish I wasn't trying to write. I thought it would be funny to have a blog entry entitled "The End", and just stop--I'm sure that's been done before, somewhere.

It's silent all around me--everyone is asleep, and I'm just thinking, now...

Hello Darkness my Old Friend
I've come to talk with you again (Simon and Garfunkel)