Silence and I

We Need a Chance to Talk Things Over.

Sharpie, Bic pen, and Crayon on an index card

Sitting in the dark, silently enjoying a moment devoid of sound, as sleep pours in through shattered consciousness, there is a sharp anthropomorphic synaptic intrusion. The moment has become a disorienting omen.

It is not the coming of a storm, nor the calm before such an event. The energy is elevated, yet flat.
The darkness permeates all of me and binds my sensations. The loss of sensory perception does not subtract from my static nerve sense, and I am enlivened with a riveting need.

The room is only a stark blue shade of blackness.

Is it a color at all?

The desolate surrounding feels like enigmatic dread. I scan my mind for…a way to describe the color, but words like indigo or cetacean still fail.

Hiding, it is barely breathing, it is Silence. It sits just out of view, on the margins. But whose view am I thinking of?
None of this is taking place in my view because I cannot see.

The first tension bleeds seamlessly night after night, and the arrival is always the same. The presence heaves deep and purposeful. Somehow it remains noiseless, grinding, grinning. When it appears, all sound is pressed from existence. The heaving crackles over this blanket we share only as a memory of touch.

I am reminded of things I used to remember, but that feeling is also fleeting.

We are two of a kind: the presence and I.
We share a single space, but our intentions diverge. I can venture no guess at this intent. I cannot fathom it; I am left with imagination, a thought severed from embodied Silence. Severed is too big a word in this instance,

removed or excused fits as a replacement word because it maintains tone.

Yes, it is a tone we seek.

Menace seems implied but is not radiated. The heaving presence now eases my mind because we share the weight of existence. Our backs strain under the burden, but both of us are comforted by the ideal compromise between friends.

The clown under the bed is another guest. It is here to comfort, not to eviscerate or horrify. I would laugh if I weren’t afraid that this action would break the uneasy ceasefire that we three share.

I feel the leaves outside crying as they rot and fall from the branch. I don’t hear them, because silence is starving me.

I feel them all: the leaves, a clown, Silence, silence.
I feel them because I listen.

A stir from sacred Silence demands attention. It bores through this twitching slip.

A lifting of a hand? A covering of the mouth or ears?

I look back toward the searing dark emptiness. I lift both hands to the high ceiling in frustration. My veins throb as ridges bubble to the surface of my face. This world is splitting and shaking, and Silence perches near a corner…

A corner of what?

Silence demands compromise with its presence. Demand again is a harsh way to put it. I will rephrase. Silence wants discussion; it entreats dialogue. This silent discussion emerges as sparse numbing.

What is this secret we share? What is the secret we dare not point to directly? How does hidden thought remain? Why can a secret that is embedded in us be a shared understanding? The hidden truth that keeps me frozen to the springs and coils of this mattress is a boon. It is something beneficial and new, but far too exposed.

This quiet covenant remains a want, a destination to my soul. It is medicine for a crushing life that is lived incorrectly and out of fear.

With this truth, what about these reminders continued to ask questions? Silence forever on the bare seam of nightmare. Desiring only to be understood, all while it endlessly seeks itself, but seeks to covet, not to share. Seeking absorption and containment.

The truth must be warped or a trap, an uncovering of something whose very nature is too much even for us to share.

Restless and staunch, Silence claws at its edges…

No, it paws, with intent.

This attempted reorder would only be suicide; I realize moments before the floating begins. The dark haze itself is the guilty one. I entreat death, parley with my living end, as it hides in plain sight.

Shhh, hush now, dear jester.

We are aware of your involvement.
Making it more explicit is not the attention you crave.

I need to remember to breathe, and I’ll tug this blanket further up my neck, protector, weighted for relief.

I decide to count sheep: One, two, breathe, three, four, heave.

No—this all must remain grounded. I must level the tone.
I must sink into the darkness and synchronize with the rhythm.

Fearless breath.

There is nothing here.

Nothing here.
I will focus just on the moment. Do not let us wander in thought.

I will attempt vocabulary practice.

Start with the letter A.

Abet, adze, argon, arsenic, awake, away.

Now B. Besotted. Bestowed. Bespotted.

Besotted, bespotted.
Besotted, bespotted.

What does that mean? Drunk? Is it a lost love?

No, I must stick to vocabulary: B stick to b. B love. Beloved.
A pockmarked love? Stained love? Something infatuated?

Heff! Is that you?

Now C. Churlish, clown.

I commit a cruel, churlish conjuring; she is here now. Heff is here, not her.

Silence and I can remain cordial despite the conjuring of her name, but when we drag others toward this inky blue mess, all of us court a betrayal of trust.

I will return to vocabulary: C. Courtship, court, constancy.

Fine, I digress.

It is a quiet reminder.
I’ll focus on us, Silence, and I.

I am stuck on this bed, as you demand.

D. Defend, demand, denounce.

I would run—if I could move.

I would flee…Away, aware, approach…If I remembered what it felt like to have arms or air. A. Assailant, agree, abet.

Fear not, mute assailant,
I sense your movement, Silence. I am aware that the dread crawls more rapidly than you do.

The clown below this bed may laugh in its circus tent, where its voice is welcome, and its smile brightens the children’s eyes. It is a mistake of perception.

Were we ever that child? I assumed the sense of fear based on the appearance. I admit defeat, and you, Silence, you plot and plot, both meanings, ALL MEANINGS!

P. Plot, plot, perception, pounce, possess, procrustean.

Plot along without direct malice, prowl as you see fit. Pounce when I am prone. If I surrender without condition, it will be annihilation.

I will go back to A. absence, avoidance, act.

The act is not enough for you, Silence. You must possess wholly and worm through until all that remains is your false perception of me.

But remember this, remember well this metaphor: as the mouth says to the arsenic,
“What of you after all is done?”

“What remains following the act?”

“Go to bed, Aunt Abby.”

B. bespotted, besotted, brother, brother’s keeper.

I remember what it felt like to hear, but now only as a touch. I remember the sensation of hearing as a pin dragged across my flesh.

Something like that breaks through the silence—It breaks through, stirring my vital fluids. My flesh feels flush, and the operating apparatus of this complicated piston of life fires off sensations. I feel the sound inside of myself.
Everything is moving too rapidly, but without visual reference, I cannot place myself at the center. I cannot find an understanding.

My hands feel lost. They struggle to move beneath this heavy weight. The sensations are too intense; the coarseness is too fine. My fingertips are full of fiberglass. What I recall from times before now of touch… it was different.

I feel Silence approaching and perching, perching.

“Perched, and sat, and nothing more.”
That’s the one. Remember that line, from before now. Or no!
Is it, “You’re exceedingly polite, and I think it only right to return the compliment.” Right! That song, the ship, the black blue sea! We go back. Back to the ground. The source, the start. Set the tone again. Reset, start anew.

One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four besotted sheep perch, five bespotted shhhhheep perched and sat. Nothing more. No more. Try again, one sheep, two sheep, red reap blue creep. It creeps and it is blue, but blue like black, not like sea or sky. Blue like ink or steel?

Is blue loud black? No, black is silent blue.

Back to vocabulary, B. Bestowed. Besotted. Bespotted, blue, black.

Heff never knew I loved her, sssh.
despite the acnSSSSH.

She thought herself unworthy of receiving a word, or I unworthy to give a word. What remained was a reply. A reply that was unconfirmed but still broke my heart.

Silence, silence only.

I filled it in. I made sounds that were words to soothe our rejection. I think it is right to return the compliment.

Return what? Nothing was offered.

Not nothing, silence.

That clown under the bed smiled broadly. It tried to laugh, it did laugh, but this too was silent. To whom was this directed, I? At us? At the difference where silence begins and Silence and I complete ourselves?

No. Laugh at the children? No, the children laugh at it. What is your role in this, clown? Attention? Do you require it?
You have it. Attention, arrest, administer.

Silence is around my toes, now.

Almost here. Does it protect me?

Protect becomes the semantic argument, a discussion of meaning. Protect: to protect, one protects from another.

“A doe protects a fawn from the wolf, but the wolf’s nature protects their pups from hunger. So, it is not semantics, but perspective or lens. This is also a distraction and digression.”

Can we find a way to work it out? Yes, but it keeps me here and now. Keeps me in this moment, not a fool for speaking nor a clown for being too afraid to speak. We know Silence and I, we know.

The clown knows—tshhhhh!

Bespotted, besotted, bespotted, bestowed belief.

I didn’t know she workshhhhh.

Hush now, clown. cetacean.

Smile and nod, keep it down. Down there, shhhh!

One sheep, two sheep, three shhhhhhh!

Dash around the path. To a place where the light and noise collide like thunder, keep it loud. It is cat gut across horsehair. Synthetic gut steel. Let it drown out the clowns and their parlance. Their haughty evidence. Their files of empty notes and blank depositions. Let the files be spotted by cursive scribbles. Let them be sotted like bitter gin. Let it be stowed away in a bed, in a blanket, in the dark, the dark blue. The dirty, dark, dusky draining drawer.

Shhhh.

It is the leaves rotting again, isn’t it?
The leaves heave in a rotten night.

Is that you, Heff?

No, it is a chirping in my intestines. It feels like what I remember of sound.

Clown, chirp, cote, conk, cochlea.

I endured it, not with my cochlea, still no sound. I endure it on my skin. Is it blood expanding through my veins, vain, vines, verdant, vibrant, Heff H-h-h-hussssh now.

We are together as we always were, and as we always are.

We are perched and sat.

Silence’s blue black face gently against mine. Its glowing esca swing above its face, radiating signals that reflected my essence outward.

Viewed vistas via impossible sight, this sparseness and controlled brilliance greeted me, remnants, reminders of vision. The form seeking a treaty is a darkness that my imagination populated with unsotted accuracy.

Silence’s face was a stretched, arid cetacean mass. Three spots, three earthen and rubbery holes that seemed smashed into place with a procrustean adze or pick.

The lowest opening is its mouth, and it latched over mine, slowly breathing into me, bringing me back to sleep. Silence’s Disc-like thumbs pressing into my eye sockets with the intentionally subtle malice of inevitability. I cannot scream.

I just gurgle in silence, into Silence.

….This is our chance. Now! I spring to comfort, to abate the need for further guarding. I shift my weight from shoulder to shoulder, trying to rock myself into movement. I try and break the paralytic grip. We need a chance to talk things over! I feel the words rush through our shared lips. Hush now, heart. I remind myself again.

Start again. A, abate, act, ache, awl, adze,

Bestow, bespot, beset, be still.

A compromise is reached, as I float away. We’ll find a way to work it out. When asked, I will use Silence to guide me, and in return, it will relent, and the clown will smile. Silence will be elated by its control, its manner. The clown will make the children laugh with us. This is his role, Correct? Why else did it join?

When assured of its victory, Silence shakes me gently, almost like the kneading of a kitten. Thin fingers with hard, round ends, but also soft and seeking, its intent still hidden, not a thing to be guessed at. Not for me to ever know.

We get momentary constancy, and I shake like a seizure.

Awake.

Lights hiss around me. I need some water. The bathroom mirror is the same. I see us together, peering and seeking recognition. I clear my throat, and the sound rings off beige tiles. Sound has returned. The overhead light reflects my form at me without apology.

It is hours before dawn returns, and the tree limbs outside hold lush green spikes. Each planispiral is a marvel, screeching the coming light of day at my newborn hearing.

I need rest. I need to return to blackness and quiet. A horn. I heard a car down the road. An echoing voice. It is ok. It is ok.

Inventory complete and thirst quenched, I descend again. I pretend I will sleep. This blanket is soft and gentle. I would welcome a yawn as proof and evidence. There is the cord of the lamp. There is a CLICK, CLICK, CLICK when the cord is pulled down, and the ping resounds with the clarity of the Bonsho.

[WARNING::AUDIO_INTERFACE FAILURE] >>>

Hush now.

I will count sheep. One, two, three, four, five, and a heave replaces existence with blackness, no buzz, no hum, a shared heave of compliance? Complacence? Competence?

Bonsho, bestow blackness bespotted besotted, My Heff?

Heff, is that you?

A broad smile descends on a quiet place of comfort and calm, and a silent shhhh lingers in a blue black inky night.

Silence appears on the margin of rest. Heaving reminds us, dear brother, brother’s keeper, keep me brother, bother, bore, breach.

One, two, three, breathe
Heaving reminds us of our bold bond brother beneath.

Something joins me beneath the heavy coarse blanket, Heff? Heff? Here, Heff, I am here? Hear?

Nothing is returned, only Silence.

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This is from my book available here

Eye in the Sky: The Horus Cycle.

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I am still looking for interested creators for a December collaborative project.

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