Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts

Friday, September 9, 2011

Friday On Friday - "Friendly Friday"

When by their silence, they scream... “Please, just leave me alone!!!”

A "through the looking-glass" reply to the article The White Paint Chronicles (#0002), "Friday Friendlies".

“And [Job’s comforters] sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great.” (The Book of Job, Chapter 2, verse 13 - English Standard Version)

What do you do when someone you care about is in pain? When by their silence, they scream... “Please, just leave me alone!!!”

Without a word, they send a message so loud it knocks you down. It removes all reason. It makes you want to walk away, want to forget, want to remember the past without the present. But the present is where the pain is... and they don’t want to share, even if there’s plenty to go around. So instead of just sitting in the dirt, surrounded by fools like some post-modern Job, they hide themselves from fools, and the words of comforters. They hide themselves... from you.

What do you do when their pain becomes your pain? When in your silence, you scream... “Please, just let me in!!!”

Without a word, you send a message so loud it sits you down. It gives you a reason not to walk away, not to forget, needing to remember the past in the present. Because the past is really where the pain is, and you’ve been there, but they won’t let you share... because they are smarter than that. Smart enough to not give you the chance to speak, for fear that your words, no matter how wise, might just make the pain hurt worse. Because that’s what words... the stupid, best-intentioned words of comforters, most often do... they hurt.

But because of the past that they live in the present, they can’t hear, in your silence, that all you want to do is sit with them... in the dirt.

In the silence.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Friday On Friday - "Unlicensed... Poetic"

The bloody awful poet is back.


LOVE overcomes the changes we make
The wrongs that we do
And the chances we take
The wind and the rain and the hearts that we break
In the silence... of our voices.

HATE underscores the hits that we take
The fights that we lose
And the faith we forsake
The grey rolling fog through the souls that we take
In the silence... of our choices.

HOPE overrides the lines that we fake
The people we use
And then leave in our wake
The good that we don’t and the bad that we do
In the silence...

Thursday, February 18, 2010

LAX CONFIDENTIAL: "I Forget... I Remember... I Forget"

A study of benign hopelessness... in three little acts.

The third in a series.



Act 1: "I Forget..."

Quiet. It’s the sound that swallows every sound that surrounds it. It’s the noise that makes void the voice of every thought.

I don’t remember the last time I drove without the radio on in the car. Okay, that’s a lie... I do remember. It’s that I choose to forget. It was the day my Dad had his last heart attack. I was driving for a living (what else is new), and I remember that on that day when my radio fizzled and cut out for good, I actually prayed that it would work again, just so I wouldn’t have to be alone in an empty car with my own thoughts. Amazingly, mystically, the radio came back to life. An unexplainable resurrection from the dead.

About an hour later, I got the phone call that my Dad had “died” on his front porch, and was being breathed for on a ventilator at Gardena Memorial.

In the years since, driving with noise has become for me a second voice. The sane equivalent of the never ending dialogue of the schizophrenic.

In the aftermath of the miracle of the car radio, I heard a story — an airport story — of two cars, three men, and one question.

The story went like this...

After picking up man number one at the airport, man number two sees a third man in the car next to them — windows down, car radio blasting — the music louder than he could derive enjoyment from. Man number two, being the kind of man who bitches before he thinks, rolled up his window against the noise and complained to the second man,

“What is that guy’s problem? He’s gonna go deaf and take the rest of us
with him. Can’t he hear?!!!”

“He can hear,” the second man said. “What I want to know is, what is it
he hears that he’s trying so hard not to?”

Quiet. I tap the front of the radio, my fingers loud in the unaccustomed silence of my car.



Copyright © 2010 Bill Friday