I was thinking the other day ( About Silence )

I never understood the phrase, “the silence was deafening”. I mean, I got it on a philosophical basis, but physically? I couldn’t imagine what it meant or how it felt. Now I do.

I’m in my house alone and my ears are actually ringing with silence…the silence is so empty…empty in a way that creates a pressure in my ears. On my chest. It’s a still sort of silence. So still. A complete stillness—absent of any other sound within the house. Even the dog is silent and that fucker has never been silent in his little doggy life.

It’s a silence that is malevolent, creepy, cautionary. It’s a silence that has presence, agency. I tried to talk to myself like I always do and it sounds wrong. I tried to sing, badly, like I always do and it sounds wrong. I played a record. I played with the dog. I emptied the dish washer. I turned on the tv. I tried to take a nap. I tried to read.

There is a fly on the window and I swear to god, it’s flying soundlessly.

This is how bad it is: I’d take a full theremin concert right now.

There is a lot of things I thought I’d have to make peace with after Lowell, but never did I think of the silence.