A Few Quick Thoughts-Pieces,
because I too-much enjoy posting:
"A Common Enough Revelation"
A man was walking one day when he heard a sound that seemed to emanate from him, and this sound intrigued him. When he stopped moving, the sound stopped. He first imagined it was his shoes. But when he walked on the sides of his feet, the sound ceased. He wondered if it was the candies in his bag rustling in their packaging - but when he purposefully shook his bag, the candies made quite a different sound. Despite his investigation and the attempt to move the bagstrap, the sound continued when he walked.
Perhaps it was some echo off the buildings nearby, he imagined. It only occurred on some days, or at least he only noticed it a couple times a week. It would come when the rest of the world was silent, or when he at least could hear himself think. He thought of asking someone else about the sound, but decided it was too ludicrous. All the same, he quite wanted to know the sound's physical source.
It was a sort of whisk-whisk, whish-whish. When he would stop to listen for it, quite consciously and strained, he could no longer hear it. It was something in his movement. After hearing it a third time, on a third different day, he began to doubt his senses. Uncannily, it was indeed the same noise. It seemed to be something haunting him. He wondered if other people had noises like this, sounds which followed them unexplained wherever they went, sounds which fled to unheard corners as soon as they were sought out.
Why would a sound call and yet not want to be known? Certainly, all animate creatures make their noises for some reason or another, even birds, with all their incessant singing to and for no one. This sound called his attention. But it would not be found. Was this part of the neurosis of living? On this third time of hearing it, he chose not to seek it out, to just listen to what it was saying. Perhaps the mistake was to try too hard, perhaps the revelation would come of itself. He supposed others had come to this same conclusion, and perhaps that's how they learned to live with the sound. There was something so essential about it - it had first called out on a day when he was in a peculiar daze. It was a dreamlike sound, one which, in its incomprehensibility, carried terrific and secret import. It was like a spy. Whisk-whisk, whish-whish, whisk-whisk, whish-whish. He listened carefully, walked with the same constant stride, and was careful not to scare the sound away with his overcuriousness. The sound seemed to echo off his environment, and yet emit from him; it represented so much, and yet was obscure. Its lifeless resonance ached for compassion and discovery, but it was too shy for interaction. What did it mean? How had the others in his place dealt? What did it want from him?
As he bent to tie a shoelace, the whisks and whishs collided. The sound was made by the scraping of his denim pantlegs. With this realization, the rest of the man's questions fell away.
"The Problem of Being Born"
He enters the library and sits down at a desk. He takes off his jacket and nobody looks at him. I know this because I am there. He takes a sip from his water bottle and looks around to see if anyone has noticed his arrival. As I have said, no one did.
He sets about reading and here we lose interest. He matters to us because he was in momentary search of affirmity. One likes to be noticed. And hopefully it does not all come down to looks.
I have noticed him, but for what?- I do not matter. He pauses and brushes a bead of sweat from his face. The anxiety returns. Ah, rubbing of foreheads: to whom does happiness belong and is it available for all?
"A Common Enough Revelation"
A man was walking one day when he heard a sound that seemed to emanate from him, and this sound intrigued him. When he stopped moving, the sound stopped. He first imagined it was his shoes. But when he walked on the sides of his feet, the sound ceased. He wondered if it was the candies in his bag rustling in their packaging - but when he purposefully shook his bag, the candies made quite a different sound. Despite his investigation and the attempt to move the bagstrap, the sound continued when he walked.
Perhaps it was some echo off the buildings nearby, he imagined. It only occurred on some days, or at least he only noticed it a couple times a week. It would come when the rest of the world was silent, or when he at least could hear himself think. He thought of asking someone else about the sound, but decided it was too ludicrous. All the same, he quite wanted to know the sound's physical source.
It was a sort of whisk-whisk, whish-whish. When he would stop to listen for it, quite consciously and strained, he could no longer hear it. It was something in his movement. After hearing it a third time, on a third different day, he began to doubt his senses. Uncannily, it was indeed the same noise. It seemed to be something haunting him. He wondered if other people had noises like this, sounds which followed them unexplained wherever they went, sounds which fled to unheard corners as soon as they were sought out.
Why would a sound call and yet not want to be known? Certainly, all animate creatures make their noises for some reason or another, even birds, with all their incessant singing to and for no one. This sound called his attention. But it would not be found. Was this part of the neurosis of living? On this third time of hearing it, he chose not to seek it out, to just listen to what it was saying. Perhaps the mistake was to try too hard, perhaps the revelation would come of itself. He supposed others had come to this same conclusion, and perhaps that's how they learned to live with the sound. There was something so essential about it - it had first called out on a day when he was in a peculiar daze. It was a dreamlike sound, one which, in its incomprehensibility, carried terrific and secret import. It was like a spy. Whisk-whisk, whish-whish, whisk-whisk, whish-whish. He listened carefully, walked with the same constant stride, and was careful not to scare the sound away with his overcuriousness. The sound seemed to echo off his environment, and yet emit from him; it represented so much, and yet was obscure. Its lifeless resonance ached for compassion and discovery, but it was too shy for interaction. What did it mean? How had the others in his place dealt? What did it want from him?
As he bent to tie a shoelace, the whisks and whishs collided. The sound was made by the scraping of his denim pantlegs. With this realization, the rest of the man's questions fell away.
"The Problem of Being Born"
He enters the library and sits down at a desk. He takes off his jacket and nobody looks at him. I know this because I am there. He takes a sip from his water bottle and looks around to see if anyone has noticed his arrival. As I have said, no one did.
He sets about reading and here we lose interest. He matters to us because he was in momentary search of affirmity. One likes to be noticed. And hopefully it does not all come down to looks.
I have noticed him, but for what?- I do not matter. He pauses and brushes a bead of sweat from his face. The anxiety returns. Ah, rubbing of foreheads: to whom does happiness belong and is it available for all?
posted by Tongue-tied Lightning at 2:36 PM
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