Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

Simon and Garfunkel, "The Sound of Silence"

I've been thinking about silence. Mostly because I've been in a rather silent mood for the past few days. Dunno if that's attributable to any one cause, really, but I didn't notice I was doing it until a couple days in. Then, like the English graduate I am, I began analyzing it.

There are a couple of lines from Pride and Prejudice that came to me as I've been analyzing my own silence. It's the A&E film version I'm thinking about (also known as the COLIN FIRTH, AAAAAH!! version), a scene at a dance where Elizabeth and her sister, Mary, discuss dances.

Mary says, "I believe the rewards of observation and reflection are much greater."

"And so they are, when there are none others to be had," says Elizabeth. "We shall have to be philosophers, Mary."

It ocurred to me recently that in spite of the obligatory annoyance/amusement at Mary's determined prudishness and anti-social tendancies, I think I agree with Mary's statement, not only in terms of dancing, but social events and other adventures in general. As a writer, I'm pretty comfortable in my third-person limited omniscient perspective. Even in my dreams I'm not always the protaganist; sometimes I find myself pulling out of the character and forming myself as a best friend or simply an invisible cameraman. Because the scene can be so fascinating from a third-person perspective. Who's going to see the subtle flash of emotion cross the heroine's face, or the baleful glance of a disguised assassin behind her back? Certainly not the heroine. The main character misses much of what makes a great story.

So I find myself in dreams and frequently in life closing my mouth, stepping back a pace or two from the others, and watching. What do I see? People who like each other, people who pretend they like each other; flirting, arguing, chit-chatting out of boredom, ignoring, becoming friends; people locked in the bubble of their own perspective, constantly bumping, brushing, ramming into others; people who come onto a scene without knowing what happened earlier and are confused, and people trying to be helpful but messing things up further; people who do kind things insignificant to a bystander but momentous to someone who knows. I see things, I learn things, and I'm usually vastly entertained.

That is . . . until someone notices me standing at the fringe and feels sorry for me. Or until I feel sorry for myself; omniscience is great and all, but it can be rather lonely. Then I wonder what's wrong with me. Am I shy, or am I too proud? Am I like Mary, just making excuses because no one will ask me to dance? Writing about adventure but not experiencing it?

Okay, to shyness and pride I concede, but not experiencing adventure? Nah, that can't be it. Even as I stand aloof, I'm the star of my own story. I have to be, since mine is the only mind I can read. I try to observe myself as much as I observe others. I often imagine what I look like walking through life; even what I look like against the wall with my arms folded, smiling secretly at the people around me. I also imagine whatifs, which gets me into trouble sometimes, like on the skyline ride in hanging pods over amusement parks: what if the cable snapped and we all dropped fifty feet to the asphalt, or landed in a tree, or thudded onto the roof of a building like ripe fruit, sliding off the cone roof of the carousel? (That's when I curse my imagination and pull my legs onto the seat so they're not dangling over the edge.) Would it be fun if that actually happened? No siree. But imagining it sure gives the ride a zing of excitement.

So adventure is one part what happens, two parts perspective. As protaganist I experience my life, and as author of my story I expand the material and refine the experiences into themes, emotions, and scenes.

At the end of these thoughts, I feel quite content with myself, my life and how it's going. Then I realize that while my mind has been churning out a bildungsroman, I have scarcely spoken a word. During this week of quiet, I've realized that people have a hard time with the sound of silence—especially protracted renditions of it. It seems that after awhile happy silence doesn't sound a whole lot different from apathetic or moody silence.

So! Life must be a balance of author and protananist, observing and participating, quiet pondering and conversation, writing and doing. This is me, seeking equilibrium. I hope that sharing a chapter of my thoughts makes up for some of the silence.