Complex Numbers

The Sound of Silence

There's an old riddle: Name me and so you will break me.

PROMPT September 10th

In your entry today, write about silence. Consider silence in both your personal life and in your writing. What messages can be conveyed through silence? Is there power in a person being silent? When is it appropriate to be silent and when is it not?

Yeah, yeah, I know - the Disturbed version is awesome. But BrandiCarlile will always be my favorite, even if that particular song only features her backup singers.

Yesterday, I tried to drive my car for the first time in six months. It's been sitting on the street directly in front of my house, unmoving, silent. You know what I wish wasn't silent? When, sometime in the last six months, some asshole broke into it, opened the glovebox, and thus turned on a light that drained my battery. Might have been nice to actually have a working car alarm, then; I was probably in my house and I would have heard it. Instead, it was silent.

No need for shock or sympathy, there -- for some unknown reason, they broke in but didn't steal anything. My GPS is still there. The petty change that litters pretty much every central console of every car in the universe is still there. My personal Breathalyzer is still there, as is my mascot, a plush Dogmeat from Fallout 4. Hell, the big honkin' knife I keep in the back for emergencies is still there, and that sucker wasn't cheap. Even everything that had been in the glovebox - mostly the manual and some CDs -- was relocated but not stolen. It's more puzzling than anything else. I mean, if you're going to break into someone's car, fucking at least steal something. I mean, okay, it's possible something is missing; I don't exactly keep a pristine car interior. But if so, it's nothing I'll miss.

So I'm out $150 for a new battery, but big deal. If I'd gone on driving as usual, I'd have spent more than that in gas and maintenance.

Only thing I can figure is maybe they were specifically looking for a handgun. This is America, after all. Never kept one in the car, though.

Segué to the most obvious carriers of handguns: cops. I always wondered if I'd stick to my guns (pun intended) if I was ever arrested (I haven't been). I always imagined the cop would read me my Miranda rights like they do on TV. "You have the right to remain silent." At which point I'd clam up and say not even one word until I, somehow, hooked up with an attorney. The exact method of contacting an attorney when one isn't speaking a single word has always been a mystery to me.

Knowing me, I'd fail. But that's one time when silence is absolutely appropriate: when one is arrested and "anything you say can and will be used against you."

But silence can speak volumes. Fifth Amendment aside, spouses, for example, can and do use your silence against you. Her: "Do you think she's prettier than I am?" Me: *clams up while deciding whether to lie or tell the truth* Her: "I KNEW IT!" And then five or six days of the silent treatment.

There's an old, well-known Zen koan: if a tree falls in the forest and there's no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? Well, a sound is the vibration of air molecules; an ear isn't required. So... yes.

And yes, I'm well aware of the related joke: If a man speaks in the forest and there's no woman around to hear him, is he still wrong?

These days, silence is vastly underrated. I've mentioned before that I despise television with its blaring, constant noises. Here on the internet, though, there's never silence: everyone has a voice and seems determined to use it (metaphorically, at least; it's no accident that the second-most-popular social medium is called Twitter). And there's a lot of chatter about refusing to "be silenced."

This makes sense, though. It's one thing to choose silence for oneself. It's quite another to have it imposed upon one.

Which reminds me of an old joke.

A monk joins an order that requires a vow of silence. Upon joining, he's told he can speak only two words every five years. So, after being there for five years, he gets summoned to the head monk's office. "You may speak two words now." So he says, "Bed hard." They promise to switch out his mattress for a softer one. Five years later, he's summoned again. "Food cold," he says. I don't remember if they do anything about that or not; it's irrelevant. After another five years, he gets summoned a third time, and this time says, "I quit."

"I'm not surprised," says the head monk. "Since you got here, all you've done is complain."

Still. Not every silence is uncomfortable. I often wish we'd learn to live with the stillness and not fill it with meaningless twitter.

Today is my dad's birthday, and he is now forever silent. As will be the fate of us all. We should learn to get used to it.

The answer to the riddle way up at the top, if you haven't figured it out, is of course "silence." It's like a hole, I think: not an object in and of itself, but defined by what's around it. An interesting concept when you really think about it.

Preferably in silence.

"Fools, " said I, "You do not know
Silence, like a cancer, grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells, of silence