2003-07-09 - 8:55 p.m.
THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE
For my birthday, Mr. Philately was not supposed to get me any gift. My gift was supposed to be only our family trip to American Players� Theater to see two plays and walk through the gloriously tacky House on the Rock. But he saw what he thought was the perfect gift and bought it. I am now the proud owner of the CD of the 1981 Simon and Garfunkel Concert in Central Park. The CD ends with the song �The Sounds of Silence.�
I know about the sounds of silence. First, I experienced them at that concert. Mr. Philately and I and a group of law school friends were there. We could not see a thing. Worse, we could not hear a thing. As far as concert music goes, the �Sounds of Silence� was as apt a name for what we heard of the concert as well as for the song that apparently they played. But, as it was a nice day, we sat, we picnicked, and Mr. Philately and my roommate did word puzzles.
But I know more about the sounds of silence than comes from not hearing a free concert in Central Park. For starters, I know that Paul Simon is correct that silence grows. This journal in the last two weeks is a perfect example of how silence grows. Yes, I was out of town two weeks ago but I returned full of things that wanted saying and things that should not be said. Unfortunately, maturity occasionally fools me into thinking that it consists more of not saying things that should not be said than it does of saying what should be said. The more I decided not to say, the more I could only think of writing what should not be said. The more I did not say, the easier it became to say nothing. One day passed, then two, then several, and, before I knew it, silence had blanketed this diary like smog blankets a city.
Paul Simon also noted that silence �like a cancer grows.� When he wrote the song, he could not have known how apt that image would be for my last week of silence. My office has been on death watch�literally. A co-worker, who has valiantly fought aggressive breast cancer for years, is dying. While those of us who have been in the office for many years have known of her fight, we also have known that it has been the-fight-that-cannot-be-named. She wanted normality, she insisted on normality, and the price was a total inability for anyone ever to ever speak about the giraffe in the middle of the room, no matter what pain that giraffe obviously was in or what practicality required. That mute giraffe soaked up all the possible words in the room and has left us isolate�at least, until today when this fool rushed in, and began speaking with other co-workers. When the end comes, and it likely will come soon, can you speak words of remembrance for someone who left you unable to speak of her at all?
Maybe, ultimately, sometimes hearing what once was silent is a good thing. Maybe not. All I know for sure is that it sure is good to hear the song �The Sounds of Silence� now. As for the silence itself, well, it�s time for it to end.
LAST YEAR: Saving Us From Educated Canadians
TWO YEARS AGO: The Boyfriend
IN CASE YOU MISSED THEM:
The Wages of Opinionated Children
Strawberries
My Playboy
Macho, Macho Man
What Might Have Been
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Copyright 2006 by Ellen |
