I think it started six months ago, the moment I noticed that I was emotionally bloated. It isn’t surprising either that my body is following suit, probably from soaking in the carcinogenic decibels of “noise in the void.”
Every morning between 4:30 and 6:30 a 20-something-year-old Mercedes fires up an engine loud enough to wake the block, and then revs louder as it makes sure to let the neighborhood know “I’m leaving. I’m going somewhere.”
“To hell with you,” I think. “I hope this is your last trip.” More karma slaps my face, and I know I’m going to die soon if I don’t leave this shithole.
I’m suffocating and everything stinks. I sit in what’s left of East River Park for meditation, and all I hear is the roaring boom of traffic on the FDR, screeching sirens, and the sounds of the subtle vibrations in the steel and rivets as the rolling stock rattles the bridges… So much noise in the void.
Somehow, we’ve taken up the idea that Bluetooth speakers are a commodity, and every few moments, yet another person uncomfortable with their own heartbeat blasts through with an abominable audio assault. I sit densely, feeling my calloused eardrums vibrate, scarred from a decade of working in a restaurant where dulcet tones droned on to mask the chatter of hundreds of people talking at once.
My ears don’t even mind so much, they’re coated with wax, but it’s the rip through the silence, almost on purpose, which stabs my sensitivity. The noise is a way to let us all know “I AM HERE! I EXIST!” So much noise in the void. The fentanyl has them sick, and every now and then as they’re scratching at a stoplight, they’ll groan a dull howl.
Who am I to say what should happen? I silently wish them peace without a larynx. The karma builds and I can’t poop. I do nothing about it but hole myself inside and write.
I notice as I sit here and write this that I’m often ignored in favor of a “how to” article- the “how to” article is yet another piece of noise in the void. Yet another useless dump of data that will inevitably do nothing, because a how-to doesn’t untie your nonsense knots.
I remember years ago when I first started writing on Medium, I wrote an excellent piece about my drunken alter ego someone not-so-lovingly named “Debbie Debauchery.” It was a raw account of it taking nearly five hours to move a bookshelf into my apartment in my early sobriety because of the years of drunken neglect.
I was so pleased with the piece, painting it with imagery of hopeless desperation. Someone accepted it into their publication, with the stipulation the title be changed to a “how to.” “How to Clean Up Your Life as a Drunk.”
I was so angry. This wasn’t a “how to.” This is a raw account of my being.
There’s so much noise in the f––king void with these “how to” articles.
Nobody needs another data dump. We’ve bloated the space through the information era and I’ve had gas for years. Can we just eat fruits and trust our hearts? And dammit if you can’t blow a hole in that speaker or snip the spark plugs in that Mercedes. God, the noise.
“My sweet God. The noise. I can’t hear you.”
In the morning, my fingers speak symphonic soliloquies downloaded from her; I weep when I can’t touch her. With every screech, every rattle, every assault of another nonsense image generated in minutes, repetitively slathering the same stale shit of scribble, I’m lost to hear or be heard.
I’m lost in an echo chamber, physically, digitally, spiritually.
In the morning, I ache for quiet. I used to love you so.
