VI. The Quiet

Everything at once, the nectar of the shadow | Between Memories

There was no bird song that morning, not even in the distance. Only the sound of gravel under my shoes and I found myself walking more slowly, almost tiptoeing.
The Quabbin is a man-made reservoir in Central Massachusetts, several towns were drowned to make it. The majority are still submerged but the town of Dana has some stone foundations exposed and trails that you can use for walking and biking.
The paths are mostly old roads, clear and wide. It was about thirty minutes before I heard a woodpecker, but I did see a bear. It walked right up the road and took off at the sound of my crunching steps. As I crossed its path, looking for footprints, I felt myself being watched. I looked to my left and saw the bear again near the power lines, it sat down and waited for me to pass. I felt a bit hurried actually.

It’s not too often that there’s no sound, and in fact, there was plenty of sound that day. Quiet isn’t so much the absence of sound as the perceived absence of activity. There was a sense of emptiness, and I found myself upset.

It’s easier to hear the space between sounds on days like this. The Nada sound, or the distant hum that is revealed in the quiet. But you can find it any time. It’s a subtle version of ringing in your ears. It can take you so deep that you don’t know where or who you are anymore.

During the spring of 2021 I learned that the best way to spot birds was to listen carefully, and use your hearing to identify the possible location.  I experienced a spontaneous and sudden acuteness to the sense. The sound of my dog’s nails clicking on the floor at night was enough to wake me up from a dead sleep. I could hear the murmurings of activity from very far away and while I felt a bit superhuman, it was inconvenient. Sleeping became more difficult. I felt overstimulated at times. But slowly I learned to direct that acuteness towards something specific. I heard what was there and not there.

I’ve worn glasses since I was a child and I have often wondered what my life would’ve been like if I was born prior to the invention of corrective lenses— to be not quite blind, but unable to see clearly.  When my eyes close I am awash in colors and images. I take notice when the light behind my eyes fades and I sink into the dark.

I was visiting the new home of an old friend.  She trained her eyes on me attentively while I described this and to my surprise she seemed to understand.

The house was nestled in thick woods on a hill, at the end of a long driveway. The open water was just across the road but I couldn’t see or hear it. I had a strange feeling earlier that day. An urgent question, a longing, from inside or outside I wasn’t sure.

It was the middle of the night when I felt a cool weight above my body.  A presence, you could say.  It wasn’t entirely surprising.

I woke myself up and kept my eyes squeezed shut. As I put my hand on my chest, I realized I was coated in a thin layer of sweat. I kicked the blankets down onto the floor with my feet, stripped off all my clothes, and lay glistening in the dark. The air was bright against my skin and my head stung with pressure.
It wasn’t the first or the last time I experienced something like that, but it was the worst one. And it took me a long time to fall asleep again. As I drifted off a single bird sang in the dark.

The back of my neck burned, the expression on her face infuriated me.

She had driven a wedge in our fragile relationship with such recklessness, it threatened to sever off a part of myself. A flash of epigenetic memory surfaced, and for the first time in my life I had the urge to hit someone.
I felt a question that you must have answered long ago, the invitation to release your rage onto another person. I imagined how it would feel, and it felt good.

A pang of disgust came over me.
Yes, you must have answered this question already and felt something different.

I didn’t know what to do with fruit that was rotting on the vine.   I guess I held it close so I could still call it love.

Bears are skilled at identifying plants and roots, and are known to have the best sense of smell of any animal on earth. The hundreds of tiny muscles in their noses can be controlled with the ease and finesse that we use our fingers to grasp. 

They have intimate knowledge of their bodies and circadian rhythms. 
They are fiercely protective of their young.
They know how to rest. And they know when to draw on their power.

Dave gave me a bear claw once. I held it alongside my fingernail and marveled at the scale, the sharp point of it.  I remembered what you told me.

“I really want to push you out of this car right now,” she said, on our way home from JFK.

The taxi driver started to pull over at her request and I had to remind him that he couldn’t leave me in the middle of the highway. I didn’t see it coming, yet it felt inevitable.

When you see a bear crossing your path it’s important to know if it’s a black bear or a brown bear. If it’s a black bear and it sees you, you should make noise and let it know you’re there. Make yourself look bigger. They usually don’t want anything to do with you, and they will walk away. If they charge you should stand your ground and fight back.

But if it’s a brown bear, you want to be really still and speak softly. If they see you, and they’re close, there’s no point in running. If they start to attack it’s best to play dead.
Lay on your stomach to protect to your vital organs, and wait for them to walk away.

I’m floating above an old boat. The oars are gone and I can see flecks of rust along the sides. The inky black water stretches endlessly in all directions, only discernible from the dark sky by a presence of surface tension. I see my body supine along the floor of the boat.  
Then the boat is empty. 
Then, no boat. 
The water and the sky dissolves, and I am sinking. Pressure builds around the edges of the body until only a vibration remains, a faint ringing in my ears. It courses through the tissue and spins.
A body would feel dizzy but this feels like the moon

Living in the city for a long time, it can feel strange to sleep away from the human noise. Some people say it’s too quiet, but it’s full of sounds. In the summer you can hear crickets, and in the winter you can hear the house itself creaking and the wind whistling through the trees.
I can hear birdsong in the morning from the window of my apartment in Brooklyn. There’s usually a mockingbird or two close by. If you live in the city, then you know that the mockingbirds here have learned to mimic a specific car alarm that was popular some years ago, a progression of sounds in a particular order and cadence. Their song used to sound exactly like it but now it’s a little different.
Passed from generation to generation, this strange call heard by their ancestors wakes me at dawn.

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It’s always there you know, even when you can’t see it. 
A shadow doesn’t make something disappear 
but we feel the loss anyway. 

Sometimes it flashes like images and light, and other times 
it travels up your body like a wave 
and you’re there again. 
Memories can haunt you, or sometimes they just lurk
You can almost ignore them until you sense a movement 
from the corner of your eye.
 
I invite them in.
 
They tell the same story and I listen anyway
because they’re lonely. 
And when they’re done 
we just sit. The light grows dim and fades away, 
familiar friends who have said it all.

There is a fullness in the dark, and in the quiet. 
It seeps into every pore and crevice. 
Your vision adjusts and you can see again, what’s only visible without the light. 

You’re a part of it and you always were.
 
The rest of it is here. The whole thing, all at once. 
And you’re whole too.

Next Post > VII: Exit Wound