The Noise of Life

You've heard it all before, this much I can promise. A crack of ice, thin and subtle, building and breaking about the broken birdbath. A purr of wind in wanton trees, rushing and hushing from rustling leaves. The shuffle of squirrel toes. The hustle of hidden foes. The rumble of meekly muttered woes. And the wild rambling man whose rage fills the voided status-quo.

In this essay, in 1,00o words, I will work to decipher the noise of life. See if I can't siphon the cyanide of pride from my homely form and disappear into the simple serenade. What songs must we sing to find freedom? What space may we elope to? Join me on a journey through space, on a dance with time, and delight in a portion of an endless race.

The clock reads 8:29 PM. I am in my living room, across from my father. He is writing code for a radio transmitter. He intends to install it in a shitty racecar parked next door. A passion project, he remembers his grandfather, who until the age of 88, clambered over Northern English homes to install TV antennas. The man liked radio waves.

When I was born, I left a world behind. How bout you? Can you taste it? It's like eating bark, dirt, a spark. Rebirth is not so much a belief as a mindset. How often do you die? The sky reminds me of how silly it all is. Whether or not you tell a fib, break a foot, find a new meter... who knew meter and foot were meant to be together!

A professor once stood in front of a class, droning on about life and the verve infused in a good word. Soaked or steeped, like tea, the English language is a travesty of curly-qs and savage diction. Our rules are like our rulers -- rigid and unkind. We must learn to bend and measure life in new ways.

It's got a ring to it though. Like fingers or trees, we love to know how long we've been alive. How many cycles and seasons we've survived. The dead don't care. They die and they suffer and they slip into nothingness (which is everything) and we watch and mourn and check our watch again.

When Shakespeare was around, nobody particularly cared for a while. Eventually, they got with the program. Bit of a bummer if you ask me. For four centuries, all we've been told is he was fan-tiddling-tastic for making up words and writing every story under the moon. A million monkeys could do better. That's one thought.

Another school of thought is more kind. Like a million fish may paint picasso in the sea. Seemingly insignificant, I wonder what you see. Feel free to slip away and stare into the street. I watched for a minute, counting. Like sheep or sleet or... How many cars pass by? I wonder how often we move without regard for our bodies. Can we be blind, present, and faithful?

I'd like to love a fat man. Hold him and cry into his shoulder. Feel his warmth, look into his eye, and say, "you're beautiful." It is the same for a poor man. A scarred man. A woman raped, ravaged, destroyed. Let us not be foolish. This is not the end. We bury pain before we bury life. We must. What do you do to a terrorist? You hug them, love them, cry, and whisper, "it's okay, it's okay, let go of the pain." But can we let go?

The other day, I was asked to look into a pond. To see my reflection and notice how beautiful I am. I was not alone. The person next to me laughed. Chuckled. Guffawed. As if they could never see themselves as beautiful. They were just too flawed. Well, let me tell you. You've heard it all before but I might as well try again.

You are beautiful and you are fragrant and fragile and you are less than a whiff of smoke in the air; you are less than a needle on a tree; you are less than every star and every piece of dust that gathers on an unused stovetop. You are more; more than human; more than kind; more than being; more than doing. You are nothing and you are everything. I know, you've heard it all before. But perhaps, just for once, you'll believe you are you. And you will know you are me.

So let's get back to the grind. To the wind and the waves and the understanding of tea, smoke, trees, and meditation. Who do you allow yourself to be and what world can you imagine?

One day, when I turn on the news, there will be laughter. A conversation about the weather and a discussion on whether the meteorologist was once a magician. I change the channel. Spin the dial. Flick the clicker. TV, radio, neighbors on the porch, everyone is chatting about the weather.

Why? Because there is no hunger. No war. No fake this or real that. What is is. There is peace. I recommend sleep and a moment to breathe. Step back. Walk around the block. Return when you are ready. Ready to rumble, tumble, mumble and cry.

We are born to die, so why not live. Once you understand the gift, you have nothing more to give. Love yourself and drink your tea. This is just as much a message for you as it is for me. A daily reminder to find freedom. We can do it. Write it into existence. We tried once (as Americans) and failed.

We the people... so let it go. Let's move on and revisit it. Like the morning routine, we ground ourselves in weather. Rain, sun, winter, spring, call your mother (alive or dead) and thank her. What is hurt will die. What is broken will break again. We must heal. Heal like the wind. Endless, resurgent, silent, and full of noise.