Sometimes, being silent is virtuous. It’s easy, especially when you’ve been wronged. Ignoring rather than engaging, casting aside rather than letting it infect you. Sometimes, it’s better to wait. Waiting for people to realize exactly what went wrong, when it went wrong, why it went wrong. To engage directly with their faults and misbehaviors. To think things over, to reflect and make right. A conscious choice to let go and ignore and wait. Empty platitudes and niceties have never been enough to convince you in the past; why should they change your mind now?
Here’s the thing: no one is permanent. And unless things change, soon, I’m fine with how things have been. The ball’s not in my court.
White noise. Do you know what it is? It’s considered to be noise that drowns out all other sound, filling the room with static electricity or ambient sounds that distract your brain from thinking of anything else. It’s designed specifically to keep you from paying attention to other sounds, so my expensive white noise machine, which of course produces white noise from its boxy exterior, fulfills that design requirement well. It has tons of different sounds: one section is for white noise, while the other section of sounds is for fan sounds. Alex and I generally prefer the static because it’s a bit more pleasant at low volume settings, and more easily blends with the ambient sound of Stamford at night. It fits in and makes it all invisible and imperceptible. When music is playing from down the street, when dogs are barking outside late in the evening, when fire trucks roam through the streets, the white noise machine is there to save the day and rescue us into its welcoming, pleasantly sounding arms. It’s such a fantastic investment.
Let me explain what caused us to get this machine in the first place. Over the summer, when Alex and I were first moving into Stamford for the first time, we decided to spend the first week or so living in the apartment without going back to work. It gave us the chance to actually explore Stamford while also acclimating to our new apartment. In the afternoon, though, and throughout the night and mornings, the restaurant from across the street played loud, loud music that you could hear even with the windows and doors closed. You could make out the lyrics, which made it a hundred times worse. That’s why we bought the machine, and ever since it’s worked beautifully.
(Sorry to break the naming convention of having a definite article before a general word as my blog title; it had to be done!)
On the way to work, I’ll sometimes put on a podcast instead of music. I prefer music nowadays because my commute is shorter than it used to be (17 minutes versus 40 minutes is a noticeable difference) and music tends to get me more consistently in the mood I’m looking for within that short amount of time. But when I do think about listening to a podcast, it’s usually MBMBaM or TAZ, or a third option, which I’m going to discuss in this blog.
The podcast is called Heavyweight, and while it’s not syndicated weekly or biweekly like the other podcasts are, it still provides consistently thought-provoking and intriguing media. It’s one of those pieces of art where, after listening to it, you can’t help but think about it constantly afterwards; it consumes you, just as you consume it. It envelops your mind and forces you to reckon with the ideas its creator is positing throughout the episode. In one episode, the creator and his friend try to get an old record back from multi-platinum recording artist Moby, and fail in the process. But they still meet with him, talk with him, and discuss life together in one of the most beautiful episodes of a podcast I’ve ever listened to. They discuss the futility of holding onto the past so intensely, like holding onto a lost record. The creator’s friend, however, attaches a lot of sentiment and symbolism to this record, as it represents the friendship they no longer have. It’s a miraculous story, and I would highly recommend checking it out. I believe it’s episode two.
It also introduced me to a song, “Sun in an Empty Room” by The Weakerthans, which I was listening to in the car before writing this post. It’s amazing sometimes how art helps you discover more art.
What are you thinking?
Make an observation,
“the classroom is quiet”
and so are we
Life is naturally loud
What might scientists
The silent cries
What happens to
eaters and feeders and
readers and writers
Food source declining,
pollution and pesticides
weather and climate change,
Freud in crisis as
ego drowns beneath
the sixth grade waves
the waves, the waves
they’re sitting in the basement rooftops
of sky-high-scrapers built ten times taller than
the Empire State and then some, I haven’t measured
fifty-three million tons of concrete under their
asses and fifty-three million more above them
somewhere soaring rapid in waves of sound,
rays of light below the sun, moon, and gloomy stars,
everything below something else, everything
above or beneath each other, except the