ode to silence
By apophenia
there is so much to be said in silence ... all the bright lights of conscious
thinking vieled in a white space of communication
"i don't want you to be a hypocrite."
"i don't want her to know who i am."
fear, love, denial, hatred, regret, mecriless is that space of noise without
words ...
the road sank in darkness in front of us, the yellow dividing dashes repeat
themselves ad nauseum, defining a path, reciting a verse, a known variable,
over and over, like that constant announcement of self in the ceremonial
lines of "hi, who are you?"
ritual disassociation ... i know it well ...
gliding down country roads in a silver saturn, patterned to fit all who
need no path of specificity, only practical, gas-modest comfort riding
... i despise the clean, curving lines of the interior space of my mother's
chosen transporation bullet ... so like a woman caged in that oh-so-cliche
bent-back way, photo-montage exposure, breast, rib, waist, thigh, as if
surface detail were all there was.
and it is really ...
here anyway ... and here is all you'll ever be as much as you'd want to
be somewhere, here is reality check 101 and it's vague and indefinite as
silence and it ought to be ...
we spoke of africa, one of my many tangents from why i disliked "batman
begins" and its backbone of hazy eastern philosophy, how the leaders of
the ANC, the African National Council, whom i had draped in heroism and
mystique and liberal ideology had failed me ... and only because i had
believed in their rhetoric, their ability to change and construct and manipulate
reality and subjugation with mere words and symbolic deeds ... my rhetoric
professor had given me their marching speeches and i had swallowed whole
their phallic strength of piercing those that had pierced them ... they
seemed more like a mafia now ... many subordinates were claiming to have
been used as pawns and scapegoats and were very critical of the ANC's proposed
mission ... to free south africa from itself
abuses of power brought us to china and the labor trade ... how china owned
america, how its low regard for workers' rights in the outsourcing of manufacturing
was causing america's corporations to gain new powers over unions of american
workers ... was causing our demands for benefits to seem childish in the
wake of their own humanitarian indifference ...
and my bother, oh so much taller than me now, his chin so much stronger
... he responded with an observation on individualism in america, how it
was destroying us, even families were becoming islands onto themselves,
communities only a tool to be used to gain more separation from each other
... "we look like we're working together, don't we?" ... and my mother
chimed in with an ancedote of how chinese would be the new world powers
because they stuck together and had so much respect and loyalty to family
...
i stopped. furious. sudden impulse to bang my head against the wind shield
like so many unfortunate birds caught dead in midflight by some whizzing
modern bullet of society, some abomination of a moving, celestial body
... i looked at my brother and choked out, "how can you talk of the destruction
of family when you can't even visit your father, who lives an hour away?"
and silence engulfed us ... silence deafened us and we drove away from
ourselves in seconds of oblivion ... what does it mean for philosophy to
be personal? what everyone does on a daily basis MEANS something ... even
here, so far away, so dark, so disassociated from whatever it was we were
meant to be ...
____________________________________________________________________________
once i mistook your mumbling language for poetry, i said did you describe
"a wooden sea, is that what you said, a wooden sea? you are a wooden sea,
walking on planks of rigid plant death."
no, you have it all wrong, i said "don't see? don't see? where do you come
from anyway?"