water-torture

"but here, as she turned the page, suddenly her search for the picture of a rake or a mowing machine was interrupted. the gruff murmur, irregularly broken by the taking out of pipes and the putting in of pipes which had kept on assuring her, though she could not hear what was said (as she sat in the window), that the men were happily talking; this sound which had lasted now half an hour and had taken its place, soothingly in the scale of sounds pressing on top of her, such as the tap of balls upon bats, the sharp, sudden bark now and then, 'how's that? how's that?' of the children playing cricket, had ceased; so that the monotonous fall of the waves on the beach, which for the most part beat a measured and soothing tattoo to her thoughts and seemed consolingly to repeat over and over again as she sat with the children the words of some old cradle song, murmured by nature, ' i am guarding you - i am your support', but at other times suddenly and unexpectedly, especially when her mind raised itself slightly from the task actually in hand, had no such kindly meaning, but like a ghostly roll of drums remorselessly beat the measure of life, made one think of the destruction of the island and its engulfment in the sea, and warned her whose day had slipped past in one quick doing after another that it was all as ephemeral as a rainbow - this sound which had been obscured and concealed under the other sounds suddenly thundered hollow in her ears and made her look up with an impulse of terror."
~ virginia woolf, 'to the lighthouse'

ah, how easy it is to slip into white noise. it has probably been some time since many of us have enjoyed an undisturbed silence...the ticking of cities is ever present, dominating our rhythms and redefining sound to our continuously-cultured ears. as jesse once mentioned, two-hundred years ago the air was not abuzz with wavelengths and frequencies...even if for the most part inaudible, they still must knead and roll us curiously, somehow; bumping into our walls and columns and fanning out into complex fractal patterns. wing-beating butterfly, hovering hummingbird. so many 'silences' that we appraise are just moderately-bent pitches and variations on the theme - somehow there is always a noise, seeking out an ear. matches remembers many times sitting in the boulder shambhala center, focusing in on the present and trying to achieve some sort of harmony with it. that temple resides on a pearl-street crossroad, and it will be ever-permeated by the bleating of car horns and the growling of engines. in that relative sanctuary, strangely-situated as it is, these things become the most intrusive, obnoxious clatterings on the planet. perhaps that was part of the plan...to integrate transcendent observance into even the most bustling, business-like thicket possible.

a soothing tattoo to her thoughts, though. i suppose we are all winterized to crash through these dins (reflected upon constantly as mattress if often woken in the morning by hammerings [and not the windy-day, berry-tree kind] and the subterranean trollings of various construction equipments). could it be possible that we really have become completely comfortable with nestling into these noises? does silence have to mean loneliness? who among us has even really experienced a genuine silence...some eclipse of events whereby we happen to be in a remote wilderness at night, the kind where you can hear your heart beat just at the edge of your reasoning, and our minds have not elbowed their way into the moment with the ramblings of an inner monologue? matches wonders what it would feel like to disappear into that nothingness~ possibly he has come close, but not quite slipped under.

a worthwhile experiment: have you perchance ever let a thought exist within you, and not qualified it with any words? of course you have. but try now to realize it as it happens~ let that thought start to cocoon itself, and then release it into your consciousness without actually letting your brain scribble a recipe of words for it. feel the shape and the color of it; exist with that edged knowing of it, without the necessity for any labels...nouns, verbs, and adjectives are the enemy here. don't tell this secret to the enemy...keep it hooded by your senses. isn't that neat?

lastly...do you feel 'guarded' by sound? by this marked passage of time? does it lull you into rocking-crib serenity? sometimes, matches...sometimes. everything must exist in the dimension of time...this is a condition of life. possibly, probably, the appeal of sound (of song, of music...) is also present in the undeniable fact that it will be gone the next moment. if you want to know what something is, look to what it isn't. perhaps beauty must have an element of decay; or melody, of rhythm, of shaded undertones and minor chords. the treble clef may be more significant than almost anyone has previously guessed; it may hold stars and secrets.

"but time, is on your side
it's on your side, now
not pushing you down, and all around
it’s no cause for concern

come on, oh my star is fading
and I see, no chance of release
and I know, I’m dead on the surface
but I am screaming underneath."
~ coldplay - amsterdam