|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
about the silence
about the silence Neither the formula for the measurement of force nor the little box who tells us the wavelength of a sound has a dollop of an inkling about the silence.
The silence that has the most stupefying name we cannot pronounce because our mouths are finite and the sound of the name is the sound of all sounds sounded at once, every sound, many of which we have never heard, which have never been heard, not even by the tiniest wee little ear....
the silence who lives in the gap in the breaks in the noise, not in the exact middle yes most likely somewhere that I'll describe when I get back from an errand from which I'll never return.
Just when the mind was just about to give up trying to block out an rankling sound, it finds a click that it likes in the static-finally!
and starts riding it like a surfer on a dreamwave - everything stops. The earth is gone-memory-fear, and awareness is sucked into a doorway that may be stood in but not gone through.
Impossible terrible pain - hit by a bat - jabbed by million mile needles, wrapped in a bliss like the kind that comes when the punchline that just went from being at the tip of the tongue to being forever lost arrives right when the 50,000 in attendance were turning to leave.
So brief, so foreign;
then when the awareness tries to get shot back to wherever it was, whatever it was doing, it can't, because all of that is now dollopless inklinglessness.