It is so quiet in here. I can hear only the occasional muted pops and cracks of the structures on-going and tedious settling process, the 2x4's or possibly 2x6's multi-decade transition from weight bearing solid wood to rot. Also, every few minutes a gallon or so of water rushes through the plumbing, eagerly submitting to the beckon of an occupant with dirty hands or an empty glass. Exhausted from sitting stagnant, the water hurriedly gushes from the faucet simultaneous with the turning on, so as not to miss it's opportunity to shine(modern plumbing makes it seem this way at least). Aside from these audible fixtures of any mixed-use residential structure- I hear nothing.
This silence is almost too much. While it may be cliche to label it deafening, I do understand the phrase. It's so quiet in here, without even the often ignored, distant suburban soundtrack that is frequently disregarded in attempts to identify a space or moment as 'quiet'. Seasoned city folk retreat to bedrooms with single-paned windows that struggle to keep the sounds of airplanes, sirens, weather, and barking dogs at bay. They merely filter this metropolitan music, dampening the shrill highs and cushioning the blow of the rattling lows. It is these noises however, that most of society is very much accustomed to, almost comforted by. These laconic lullabies are responsible for tucking in and putting to sleep the masses, each and every night.
It is due to this fact, that the quiet in here is so prevalent. It is not so much silence per se, more the lack of actual sound. In fact, this intangible void that should be filled with the meaningless but dependable chants of a city, is temporarily the host to a certain buzzing noise. Noise may be an ill-fitting term, but I'll be damned if even silence, when there's enough of it, has it's own audible accompaniment. It's as if the hearing process, if ever interrupted by literal quiet time, given a break from listening, would flourish in it's freedom and cease operations permanently. That is, of course, assuming said hearing process has the capacity to maintain it's own free will and the knowledge to exercise other options...
Being a part of this silence makes me feel small, unnecessary. I feel, for example, like an r, a lower case r. Just another letter amongst many other available and more interesting letters. An r cannot boast the essence of a vowel, as a word can be constructed without one. An r also lacks the oomph of some of it's stronger counterparts, J's, K's, or X's and so on. Just a middle ground, average, run-of-the-mill letter. Asian cultures don't even reserve a spot for our poor r in their languages. When speaking English, non-westernized natives will leave it out completely, sometimes with the awkward fumblings of replacing it with an l or w sound, seemingly just to spite the r.
My role in this silence, much like our anti-hero the r, can generate more significance than one might anticipate. I have the ability, at any given moment, to break this heavy silence. To shatter it's unsuspecting ass and splatter it's delusions of grandeur to a screeching halt(the screeching particularly upsetting to the stubborn silence).Is it possible the the r can bear the same load as any member of the alphabet? That it just chooses to fly under the radar, unnoticed? Maybe an r is only summoned for questioning when it doesn't show up. Consider the role of our little protagonist in the word 'important'. Sure, if it's not included in the word, the a should be exchanged for an e, but who cares about careless misspellings when they realize you're shooting blanks? Who cares about improper vowel usage when the news has just been broken that you're baking with sugar-free nookie dough? An infertile woman is revered as tragically deprived of the authentic experience that is motherhood, sans child labor, a victim, and few would disagree. Inversely, should an impotent man be rendered obsolete? A man who's swimmers can't muster up the courage to exit the wading pool?- A personal failure, a dud. A firework with a long misleading wick offering ultimately, a let down. No shower of sparks. Hence, the necessity of the wolf in sheep's clothing that is the r, with the power to make or break. Today, however, this silence is welcomed, so I will not utilize my power to break, and continue in my submission.
My pocketed cell phone on the other hand, does not comply. I receive a text message, and the phone responds by vibrating what might be louder than if I had chosen the ring setting. The momentary break in silence startles me, and I decide to read and possibly respond to the message later, as right now is a peaceful moment. There is also an ensuing project at hand, and my unadulterated effort will most likely yield better results.
It is at this time that I notice the big grey circle on the rug directly in front of my feet. Suddenly, I feel as if I'm being watched. I immediately gain the knowledge that this grey circle is imitating my every slight move. If I move my head partially to the left, so does the flat grey blob. When I jerk my head quickly back to the right, it follows suit. Almost, I try not to convince myself, beating me by fractions of seconds. Next I move my head back, away from the circle, and it seems to grow in size, as if to say "that's right, back up fool!", and puffs in a masculine fashion up to appear more powerful. I decide to man up, darting my head back forward, toward the area on the rug the shape occupies, and it cowers back down to regular size, ashamed of having feigned toughness just half a moment ago. So the verdict is as follows: no matter how rapid or unpredictable your movements, you can never out smart a shadow. After an honest effort on my part, it remains in the same category as biting your ear. Disappointed, I accept defeat by the shadow on the rug cast by my head, grimace, and look away.
Redirecting my line of sight straight ahead, I realize that when analyzing a closed door for an extended period of time and with a keen eye, you are almost guaranteed to find signs of shotty carpentry. At least in apartment homes. The reveal on the jamb has nearly a quarter inch difference from bottom to top; the miter on would-be adjoining pieces of trim is a few degrees off; the caulking appears to have been applied by a blind four year old with a hook for a hand who rakes in a wage far bellow the industry standard(the child's rate of pay signifying a disgruntled attitude that translates into poor craftsmanship); things like that.
While considering these finish carpentry blunders, I rest at the edge of a reservoir of sorts. Atop a reservoir I should say. The fluid contained in this reservoir resembles lemon flavored tea that has undergone far too long of a steeping process. So long that it can only be referred to as unpotable. It has sat stagnant for so long in it's containment that it leaves a crude version of a watermark at it's current level. If the fluid were to be drained or contributed to, the watermark will remind us of levels past. I take a mental note of this, and make tentative plans to later scrub.
Suddenly, with a climactic splash, a low flying chromatic mini-zeppelin makes a final crashing descent into aforementioned receiving pond. I wipe my ass with what seems like half the role of toilet paper, settling for only a trace of brown smear on the final swipe, in lieu of possible red smears on any following attempts. With a loud flush, I put that proverbial exclamation point on a successfully peaceful session, accepting the conclusion of silence, and exit the bathroom.
