silence

"Those we know best, to them we can say the least" ~John Ray
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Waking up to a silent house always throws me off, like I'm not really awake yet, but I can't quite push myself back into that delightful world of dreams.

Dreams are a bit of a confusion to me anyway, as I generally know I'm dreaming the entire time I'm asleep.  When I wake up, I write down what I can remember--people, places, colors, animals, etc...known or unknown.
Often, I go back to the journals I have dreams written in, because often, my dreams just come true.  100% true, even when the people in my dreams are unknown to me at the time I dreamt it. I know there is a term for this, and I'm not going to bother looking it up, as I'm feeling lazy. I did a study regarding this phenomena not too long ago. I haven't seen the results yet.

More on this in later blogs.

Anyway, waking up from a particularly real dream to a wholly different reality, one cloaked in silence, is kind of like being rear-ended by a Hummer while driving a Prius.

That sounded filthy. Oh well.

In my house, though, silence never lasts long. I don't know how my cat does it, but he knows the exact moment I wake up every damn day, and pads his way over to my door, into my room, and sits his puffy ass down next to the bed. Then, generally, the various cat-as-infant noises begin.

Sometimes, though, he just sits and stares at me. I have no clue what he wants, but he stays quiet too.

Silence doesn't necessarily bother me, though. I often write my best in complete silence, the clicks of my keyboard being the only accompaniment. I tried all that classical music shit, but it distracts the hell out of me when I'm working or studying. Same with opera, and I adore both...just not while I'm busy.

Oddly enough, I find rap to be the easiest to ignore while writing, as well as the easiest to sing along with without thinking. Second to that would be trance/ambient electronica.

This is not an indictment of rap. I adore rap--or hiphop, as the industry calls it. It's just an observation. The repetetive beat and smooth flow of voice don't usually jar me out of my reverie, while the topics discussed can be ridiculous or serious.  With trance/ambient music, it's much the same, minus the lyrics. It almost has to be a hum of slightly changing white noise in order to be ignored without ignoring it.

Silence is often welcome when I've got things weighing me down. I talk to myself (and my cat) all the time, working out problems, working out solutions, figuring out options and calming myself when upset.  Silence is welcome during this time, as distractions from television or music can derail a train I desperately need to reach the station.

Unfortunately, I can't write my poetry or draw in silence. THAT silence brings too many variables, too many words, constructs, and broken thoughts...it disassembles things previously thought solid, leaving me with an empty core.  This is not something I can live with.  This is the type of writing I sustain myself with, and it has become eroded...an afterthought...aided by silence.

How did I let myself get to the point where prolonged writer's block became a never-ending blank page?

If I could answer that, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't change the fact that it's something else now.

I used to write prolifically, daily, constantly...same with my drawings...this was an extension of my being. It is still there, but largely handicapped, a victim of my constant battle with emotion. When I have too much, I shut down until it can be sorted out. When I don't have enough, I shut down until I find my passion again. Right now, I have way too much of both, and apparently have shut down entirely.

I suppose waking up to silence mirrors that feeling. It's like waking up to everything static--stuffed under my covers, I know that the breach of tossing them off and stepping onto the floor will require me to interact with what the day will bring. I'll have to brush my teeth, change my clothes, clean up after my cat, make some coffee, interact with people, work, go to class, study, answer the phone, check my email...it's all waiting for me, this world I must interact with, and all the noise that comes along with mundane life.

A life I don't really fit into.

A life I don't really have much interest in, beyond trying to help myself fit into.

The night before is always more of a comfort than the next morning.

I suppose that might be why silence in the morning (shades of Phish's Lawn Boy!) is so jarring...