Stillness Speaks Volumes
Midnight is a strange time for a walk. Or at least it used to be. A few weeks ago for the first time, I noticed a couple out strolling through the schoolyard path at 11:42. In no rush to be somewhere, without a canine companion, they ambled along in the orange glow of suburban street lights.
Quiet. Still. There’s no need to worry about keeping your distance when the world is asleep.
Flood season has started and towns have begun evacuating. A headline I flipped by cried out a warning of an upcoming global food shortage. Meanwhile the American President suggested injecting humans with bleach.
These are the two volume settings we have now. Everything in full surround sound, or mute. As if the world is operating with a broken remote control.
During the day the chorus of lawn mowers begins. Somewhere from another block the hum of a motor sets off the round. One by one neighbours emerge, their coffee just being finished, and play their part. The high pitched whine of a weed whacker joins in. A constant deep bass of a pressure washer holds the beat from across the street. Up the hill the percussion from a loud but unidentifiable tool punctuates the melody. And as quickly as the band began to play the show is over.
In the living room cards are loudly shuffled. “Come play with me!” they demand. Later on I will sneak around trying not to disturb the snores filling the same space.
People are dying the news reminds us. As if we could forget. Riots have begun in countries that already seemed tenuous. A dictator may or may not be dead. Live feeds of music concerts, charity telethons, birthday celebrations, and awareness campaigns all broadcast at the same time.
The Pentagon confirms the existence of aliens and it is met with a shrug.
We used to brace ourselves for recess. Twice a day the nearby school would ring a digital bell and it would begin. Laughing and screaming they ran towards us in a cacophony that drowned everything. When the weather was hot we would have to close the windows just to hear ourselves think. It’s been seven weeks since I heard the bell. I can’t put my finger on the exact sounds it makes anymore.
Sometimes a few siblings will still come to play three man baseball. The slides sit quietly behind their caution tape.
Last night I drove down to the river to watch the sunset. At one point I switched my phone into video mode to capture a piece of it I could share. Later on I watched it and was shocked to hear the birds. They had been singing their songs for the dying day and I missed it entirely. It was only in going back to relive the moment that I noticed what I had missed in person.
We are living at two volumes, loud and soft. And they are accompanied by two rhythms, fast and slow. At least that’s the story we tell ourselves. Because in reality the sounds were always there, we just called them noise. The birds were already singing, we just didn’t take time to listen.
