Thursday, July 31, 2008

Silence Is Golden

The paranoid elements of my mind work in overload, quick-speed. Rattle through the sounds, seep through the cracks in the worry-lines. Pour over the soul as they seep through the pores. And then...Silence. The nuit blanche of llost day.

Worries blossom like a well-tendered garden, all the more ironic given the tie of the knotweed. Fancifully releasing daydreams of single knockout blows, my brain helps only when under control. Before the call to sleep, it has a flurry of thoughts like paper caught in a breeze. History has no shame in its glorious and obtuse dictator tendencies, all uniformed and ill informed. I'd fistfight History given half the change; throw it to the tide. But context has the ultimate say, itself something of an irony. All the alternative lyrics mean nothing now, the joke is lost. There can be no silent answering back, no smart remarks in the emptiness, now that the worst possible results have come to pass: writ large, as they are, across the tapestry of time. Returning to the language of jokes and secret messages has only emboldened my concern.

Hence the advice, I guess. Heed the maxim. But silence as a weapon against one situation is but a paper plate against another. These are the lessons brought to us by the Greeks, whose faces now drift into our world on the cusp of changing pressures. There is no need, to paraphrase Dylan, to ask a weatherman for the direction of the wind.