Wind chimes. How harmonically jingly in gentle breezes and yet so vexatiously clangy. I am not impressed with the sounds of banging instruments when they unpityingly violate my sleep patterns. My boyfriend had them hanging on his patio, which backs his bedroom. This vision, that was planted in my brain, still remained. And in restless dreams I walked alone, since my man could basically sleep through a cataclysmic explosion. I suppose my morning nose blowing is equally as infuriating. But he did lovingly relocate the bellish jinglers. It was better than asking him to put in triple paned windows.
In the beginning of our relationship, I left my beau’s house with a predominant nose growth after fibbing about the chimes not bothering me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the dang things were driving me crazy. As much as I didn’t like disrupting his noisy oasis, I really needed my beauty sleep. But I must say, his melodistic guitar playing, joke telling, and pet parrot noises never go unappreciated. Though he regularly turns on his radio, when most of the time he isn’t even in the room. Ten percent of the time he listens to a fishing station, and ninety percent of the time the background noise is for the benefit of his bird. Maybe he feels less lonely when I’m not around is more my guess. My quest for the splendor of silence can be extremely conflicting since he can say something and I’ll respond, “Were you talking to me???” Half the time I hear nothing, while other times I can practically hear a pin drop in Arizona. If I were to get a hearing aid, I’m afraid I will be hearing pins drop in Australia.
Other common sounds hang heavily in the air like loud music. Make that sirens, car horns, dirt bikes, catfights, electric power motors, hedgetrimmers, passing airplanes, garbage trucks, my growling stomach, and the running toilet. Thankfully I haven’t heard little voices in my head. I did always wonder what mating jackrabbits would sound like. I would rather hear that than listen to horizontal conjugating human beings, which could ultimately lead to several long-term noises later. Such as babies who like breaking sound barriers. When my girls were little, I never heard so much screaming. I had to remind them to tone it down a bit or they would throw off flight patterns. I’m sure the airport noise abatement program was designed specifically to ensure the expeditious handling of children in public. No one should have to suffer because someone else had the disadvantage of breeding a squealer.
Same goes with grown children. My oldest daughter never hesitates to hassle me and will discriminatorily deplore, “The older I get, the more I sound like you.” Thus begins the sorry plight of what I have biologically inflicted upon her. Not to mention both of us being impassioned matriarchs who know that there aren’t any quiescent stages of motherhood. Surely she hasn’t forgotten the times I wanted her to wear a muzzle throughout every one of my shopping trips. She took the timorous step forward to spill details of our similarities, since she now has a power struggling female pre-teen. Many times she’s bowed and prayed, hoping contempt will not pervade. It has the same echoing significance that Dearest of a Mommy Joan Crawford used on her daughter Christina when she said, “Your room looks like a two-dollar-a-week furnished room in some two-bit back street town in Oklahoma. Get up and clean this mess!” So it’s no shock to my system when my daughter repeats me or makes me feel somewhat responsible for her having a girl. Sometimes just to silence her I have to say, “Did you know that Will Rogers once quoted: Never miss a good chance to shut up?” I suppose I’d better listen intently to her or I could be under careful scrutiny and the subject of another scathing mother daughter memoir.
I’m sure canines have every right to be in the neighborhood as I do. But I’m amazed at what persistent dogitude it takes to snarl at every passer. Last night there was a race going on in my yard, when my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a furry fight, that disturbed my good night and precious sounds of silence. In the naked porch light I saw, three scurrying animals, maybe more. A neighbor’s Sheepdog was breathless after continuous barking and chasing cats in circles. If I wanted that sort of entertainment, I’d go sit in the Kalahari Desert and flag down wildlife. They didn’t have an inkling about the Messianic secrets of silence. They would rather hit the broad band bundle of nerve fibers of my brain. “Fools” I said, “You do not know, how important sleep is for that morning glow! Hear my words that I might teach you, take my arms that I might reach you to stop that incessant pandemonium.” But my words, like silent raindrops fell. Every time I hear howling, I find myself singing another ballad, All by myself, I wanna be, all by myself.
To think I pay a premium voice data surcharges for my resounding cell phone. And a 2am car alarm makes me want to heave a brick through the windshield of the blasted tormenter. This is where basic rifle marksmanship is needed. But golden silence can be rather suspicious since it’s the sound mountain lions make when they are prowling around your house. I’m glad both my boyfriend and I don’t live near the metro, where words of prophets are yelled through subway walls, and railroad halls. But we can’t escape thoroughfares filled with running automobiles, ‘neath the halo of every street lamp, where muscles imminently start to cramp. Lights flash out their warning and road rage is unwelcomely forming. I can’t help but say, hello traffic my old friend, I’ve come to loathe you once again. It’s like having a Barbie accessory pass through my digestive tract.
So much for peace. I try to be grateful that I even have my hearing.