Silence
Rian found silence today, for a few hours, and simply lay still to listen to the sound of empty space.
It was not, of course, truly empty. Streched across the chaise I could hear the gentle but stubborn ticking of the clock, and the faint hum of the refridgerator from the kitchen, and farther away the slurp of the washing machine in the basement. The radiators popped and cracked and cars on the street outside groaned past and occasionally the bones of the house itSelf shifted.
This made Rian think of the Abode as a living creature. Tis three times as old as Rian. And it has its own sounds, some of them without obvious origin. Eyes closed, listening to the body of wood and plaster and glass and piping and fabric and wires that surrounded Rian, I tried to imagine the life this house has lived. Why does it breathe in this way, and not that?
How many births and deaths has it witnessed? None? Many? Has it been treated always well, or ar the initials carved in the wainscotting an evidence of carelessness. Will it carry on forever, or fall apart at the seems.
Silence turned into life, in Rian's mind. And what is life without an occasional blessed silence?
It was not, of course, truly empty. Streched across the chaise I could hear the gentle but stubborn ticking of the clock, and the faint hum of the refridgerator from the kitchen, and farther away the slurp of the washing machine in the basement. The radiators popped and cracked and cars on the street outside groaned past and occasionally the bones of the house itSelf shifted.
This made Rian think of the Abode as a living creature. Tis three times as old as Rian. And it has its own sounds, some of them without obvious origin. Eyes closed, listening to the body of wood and plaster and glass and piping and fabric and wires that surrounded Rian, I tried to imagine the life this house has lived. Why does it breathe in this way, and not that?
How many births and deaths has it witnessed? None? Many? Has it been treated always well, or ar the initials carved in the wainscotting an evidence of carelessness. Will it carry on forever, or fall apart at the seems.
Silence turned into life, in Rian's mind. And what is life without an occasional blessed silence?
posted by La Tulipe | 5:22 PM
8 Comments:
Chezbob is quiet except for the hum of the fridge (large enough to fit a person in... or a few gazillion ants...) and currently the vcr. In the summer I have the incessant crickets to keep me company. And occasionally I can hear the Caltrain running. It can feel rather lonely.
The Abode sounds nice. I was warned about the pipes twanging but it wasn't a problem. Just a reminder of where I was. That I was safe. It kept the fear at bay.
I have flatmates. And neighbours. They wander in whenever they feel like it. Hence, chezemma is very rarely silent.
What is this silence of which you speak? I have heard something of a time when "there is no noise," but I think it must be a myth.
Fear of what, dear bob?
You know when you wake and go through the questions "Where am I? Who am I?" Well, very often I forget where I am and momentarily think I am somewhere else which is disconcerting. House noises never let me forget and reminded me I was safe.
I never forget who I am of course. That is where the fear and panic really starts hitting me.
It is frightening being you, o Keppet?
Yep. My dentist complains that I clench my jaw too much. I find that I just seize up when I remember who I am. It helped me a lot to go to Spokane and feel... loved, I guess.
Of course you are. Of course!
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