Silence Beyond The Noise

This is the created effort from what I wrote when I finally arrived at the end of my most previous routed post. Listen well, but cover your ears.

Saturday night and the venue is so different that a matter of fact description would be confused as if translocution dream. The hard-clacking rap rhythm expletes occasionally discernable words in sound encompassing throb, the lone dancer flails and shrugs to the beat, his sleeveless t-shirt tucked in the tight jeans his balding, 50-ish body slimly wears as he prances around the floor. Light and dark thrust pointed jibes at electronic bass sass and seduction of the senses, while a solitary shadowed star shines cool and quiet among all the smothering, driving music. You have to see it to believe its lack of overt visual presence. The message of motion and servitude leads ayes astray and keeps to the heart of the matter, thumping from the over-worked speaker system. The dancer has acquired a leather jacket to accent his ensemble as he cavorts against the backdrop of televisual foci in attention’s inadvertent view. Other gathered clientele circumnavigate various levels of presence and/or interest to be banked upon in the loudly half-empty bar, saved for later telling.
The light and dark have come to a draw and are sketched out of this canvassed, tolerant moment. I bid a dew in the gray fog remnants and get all wet in the dawn of realization’s limitations to the pulverization my eardrums snare from the noise which is beginning to rework my audio receptor tolerances in an adverse manner. I observe an interesting tesseract construct comprised by my sensory locators, placing angles and light at intersectional orientation vectors from each, while squaring off against the effrontery of the back drop vibration front and centered outward rather than in, all sixteen aspected sides of this surreal room. Picasso never had it so loud.
The ratio of male to female is off kiltered, in a normal situational way, for these kinds of places, but that is just an observational note. The music is also off kilter, off-setting, off-putting, off the walls and off the charts of volume. I just now realize it is comprised from two separate sound systems, one rapping out in this room and the other directly behind me driving a techno beat, dancing straight through the small partition separating the rooms in all but fact. Individual clarity of either is fleeting and random, with the beat heavy rap absorbed into the motion driven Latin techno in a strangely compelling blend that emphasizes neither while touching sympathetic resonance in both. I wonder if this is a regular weekend battle of the blandishments, or if I just happened to drop by (on my long way to nowhere fast) and land in a cultural battle zone between the established norm and an invading Hispanic reception of some sort. There seems to be no hesitation for the occupants of either room to mingle with the other, so it is up in the solid (in)different air that flows through the jumbled, rocky stream of my consciousness, and washes away out of context.
I grabbed a few bites of sound to chew on later, when my ears aren’t so busy going deaf. (I have no idea what these notes refer to, but they read well, so chew them carefully and swallow them quietly.)
Where is my dusty ride into the embracing, holy light of postulant, creative recognition? Will it finally materialize, or is it to remain just over the horizon that ever on extends out of my plodding reach? My purpose in writing is to create a pleasant effect on someone’s (read that as you) attentions, to put pleasure, interest and, perhaps, a new perspective within their appreciative grasp. I strive to present a view of communication that is different than that which they (you) are accustomed to experiencing. I (personally) am not accustomed to this manic, driving impetus of electronic, ethnic noise that penetrates the floor, up the bar and juxtaposed, planted stools (spread like fertilizer, with a few topped by lumps of organic beings, getting wasted and flushed toward inebriation, bar flies notwithstanding, I’m sure), through the entire bartop into my leaning arms into shoulders to meet the chair vectored vibration up my spine in its direct route to the head games my ears can’t hear for all the sound they are drowning within. The lines of pulse mingle and diverge back into my hands, through the pen, onto the paper to give sight to your prodding eyes that look to see that all that they can see is the other side of the mountain from the one we want to be on. It’s a long way down but we’re still going up in the hypernation inebriation festivation of noise. What a bear.
The silk of given moments ply and play sweet femininity into the surrounding room from their tee off location, a veritable sand trap island of drink and refreshmentalities, helping to keep people on the proverbial ball and off the wagon training. The dance floor is across the top of this ‘T’ shaped bar, as I sit in observational score-keeping (won two, nothing in favor of the moment) with you. The dancer has passed from view, having cavorted on and off during that last while or so, with interruptions consumed upon the opposite seating at the bar from (us), and has since given final cast off on to another dance in his own, personal life’s music. Behind my action relation station on this side of the (mountain) bar, the semi-open room of Hispanic dance energies drives on in over-amplified insistence against the ever forward pushing, steady gripe of offsetting (up setting, if you ask me) voices in wrap around synch rhythm beat rise. Each crescends in adjoinment with the other, peaking, dual mountaintops of head rapping, salsamatic fusion that con the very senses of my mind to hear beyond the music into the perfect pitch silence of surfeit sensory absorption. What a space out trip.
Surreal ride me as I would describe it in truth. Pitch.
Sound is a thumping pulse in my chest from the force of the noise which, as I just said (in case you didn’t hear me) peaks to loud to actually hear it. I’m just in awe of this musical competition, like it is some kind of scene from a strange, dark comedy movie filmed beyond rational expectations of human behavior and observance, demonstrating the irrational lengths self-righteous social interactions can carry: your music may be loud, but mine is louder (back to back and back again). And under the calm guise of normalcy. At least, everyone (else) appears normal. These others gathered, five around the bar and maybe ten around the room at offshoot island tables, all seem unaffected by the intense interaction of these ear-suffering sound systems. People speak (their mouths move) but there is no voice heard from my vantage pointlessness. I am painfully entertained just watching this silent visual of people which seems to have a musical sound track that is put forth in non-synchronized blend of two opposing forces fighting for sound supremacy, and both winning. I exit sanity to absorb this mesh of pound thrusting rhythm and lost vocal insistence, lost in a visual dysfunction that appears to be where I am, yet I am almost convinced it is an optical fraud. Are you dreaming this with the television left on too loud? Wake me up and go back to sleep!
I’m deaf to what I see and cannot bear to look much closer in the never easing tumult that layers cacophony in between among itself so interestingly well, but I sure can feel it. There seems to be an exodus of patrons, leaving a few who appear to converse without my sound receptors able to verify it. I imagine that this is the opposite of deaf, where there is so much to aurally process that there is no differentiation of viable structure, other than the a-rhythmic syncopations of heart-beat deep vibrations, pounding the blood of the night into the maddened few. This is a war zone. Zombies, anyone?
I batter my hatches and head (taking the carrier of my ears) for shelter that cannot be provided unless I leave, and that would leave you alone here to deal with this crush of sound collect, so virtuality (from MY perspective, yours is right on it) strikes (out in) a reposed pose, and we shall suffer this moment as one, but I will let you borrow a heavy breath in sigh lent comport. Listen up: get down.
Video chase, violence, drama and stylized action cry out (soundlessly, of course) in rectangled light against the far wall and become graffiti offerings to those whose gaze strays upon them. Visual competition from the random patrons cross patterns in referent meander of purpose and keeps the eyes from getting a cross scowled noisome sound to nose into further overladen attentions, just like snow on a malfunctioning television. We can chill together and continue to monitor the view I pan and (you beg to) handle. And thus I survive with your appreciated help (you are still reading, aren’t you?), each of us enfolded, grasped, pulled in, bitten and chewed like cud by the bovine steadiness of the thundering heard of musical onslaughter. Moo. (I was going to write ‘Moo vacuum you late edge airy at trick sin sigh lent attrition’ … but I thought that might be a bit much, considering we are getting old listening to my soundless rant regarding all the other noise going on.) Can you hear that?
Let us move on.
It’s almost midnight. Do pumkins explode at the pounding stroke of head steady beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat beat upon the door drums (brain panned entrywaywardness) of communicative bibbety-clobberty boogie? Raise your fragile fist of determination against the exigencies of survival and carve my face in the skin that time shells out to our cindered, subjected cleansing of the fire placed heat from this night. I look for a fairly good other in the need to push and promote personal interests, which is sometimes atavistic in its aggressive application. Burn and squirm.
The crowd seems to have moved on, some to pastures less interesting in sound, but easier to hear, I’m sure. Several others kept with the herd and are grazing in the dark light of the supernova sound exploding in the adjoining room, to gyrate in the strokes that touch like hammers on anvils waiting in the nervous vestibule, while ossicles chime like shattered icicles hung off the lobes of din. Still chilling hot. When I was on the long and winding road (as the beat dulls), looking for a suitable place to write this evening (and I could write a night’s worth of adventure about that effort {20/20 augury, regard the immediately previous post}) I didn’t think I would find it to see that there is nothing to hear within any audible availabilities, as they are all filled beyond capacity and operating in overload mode. I spoke (yelled forth and back) with the barmaid who has been servicing my willing wine glass (I enjoy it for the vicarious thrill) and learned that this Galactic Armageddon of the Bandwidths is a regular, weekend occurrence. Quaint. She did mention that where one was located within the barroom would favor which of the prevailing winds of speakerdom over-rode the other, with my location being fairly well juxtaposed between. She also said she gets headaches (“Not tonight, dear, I have an earache,”) every Friday and Saturday night. Who would have guessed? But still, she caters to the needs of the liquid consumption offerings I place at the disposal of your quiet eyes, and we carry on from there.
I fear the rise of tomorrow’s overload after effects upon my already (age)deficient aural comprehension and assimilation abilities. The only rise to shine on this situation would be the increased degree of suffering my senses attest to from this dance hardened air. Remaining here is a continued challenge, but if the others can survive (and return) in this enclosed rectangular overloaded tube of sound tsunamis, I think I can, too. I feel I am caught in a contradictory you stay/shun tube nightmare. I need to breathe a more balanced substance for my ears to watch what you are looking to see in these words. Do you hear me? (Read my lips from the tongue of my pen.)
I give attempt to steer my poetic, rudderless, floating umbrella (like a poem), but the encompassing bumber shoots me down thump by solid thump, in a driving reign of royal pain in the aspect of my seating arrangement. (Have you ever tried to float in an umbrella?) The absent breeze (just because there is a great, dizzying wind of spin and punch in the air doesn’t mean it moves) holds me firm in its absolute static relativity. No current electrifies the depths of night upon which surface I float my message of discomfiture in the bottle (by the glassful) of my written plea for succor (play me like a lollipopped gag on my endless shifting word ploys) against the mouthful of sweet-sound-on-a-stick, stuck choking my ears. I would say I’m a voiceless sucker for martyrdumb, but you wouldn’t be able to hear me (and probably wouldn’t want to). Absolute hold. Like my life, no flow ebbs directed pull, no power beyond random chance brings impetus to my daily struggles, no immediate goal is within reality’s view and no means of salvation lies (honestly!) within my grasp beyond the pen I clutch in desperate straights, curving my scrawl to the life lien held taught by your pedant eyes. I throw my words upon the endless see that floats my boat (of sorts), to land like raindrops upon the reflected surfeits between the (hot) air I cast and the water which holds it at horizoned bay. If I write that down I’ll probably lose it in the blend of pitter-pat sounds that splashy-splash around me like a gentle avalanche of rock hard boulders and scree. Dig for meaning and shovel the waters of confusion away before I drown. These thoughts you inherit when they come up for heir.
Be wary and don’t list end to these weirds I right to loud a gain strew and regret, they are daft in their moil, deft in their foil and deaf to your sensitivities. Anon (and on and on….)
Like a hurricane of irresistible force scours the fragile texture of low lying shore, I am washed away in the crush of vibration and swept out beyond redemption. I cannot struggle, I cannot react, I am swept completely into the waive that doesn’t even slow in its terminal drive to make the naked, barely breathable air thicker. At least my writings will possibly survive and float to be discovered on a deserted aisle (in the tongue-in-cheek section) next to the pain remedies: I’ve got to hand it to you: (read)
Time, like science fiction, has brought us to the future, and I am thus transported into a reality where I am the only one left seated right at the bar, perimeter tables hold onto a single foursome, and the dance floor of the other room has plenty of space for others to join the few still in motion, all joined in the pleasure of the music that watches over us all. But does it really have to have such loud eyes?
Comradeship holds evidence of mutual appreciation and consideration, traits that need more practice from humanity as a whole. Maybe later, right now we’re just trying to survive the speaker system and odor of disinfectant (always room for more sensory overload) that the barmaids are utilizing in cleansing the counters of any remnant viable organic wasted materials, including me. Closing time is a vulture at my shoulder (don’t worry, it’s the other from where you’re looking over), and I’m on my last swallow of swooping, soaring, high-flying wine whine. Managerial authoritarianship sweeps in (like a bird broom searching for Ouroboros to swallow its tale) and encounters the light (remember, this is strictly visual with no perceived dialogue), which ends the sentence and gives me no clue as to what I was talking about. Nothing new there. An encounter behind the counter sets a counterpoint (over there, by the birdcage) to alight upon the flame and maintains terminal services preparation, while the higher-archy has lowered his profile back under the archway to the kitchen, situation resolved and dispensed with, taken like a memo random action. (That’s MY job.) Resumption of clean up and up rails the stakes and increases the effluation of aerosol anti-septic(-and-breath) efforts. At least the noxious cleansing gives a variant to my toxic, sensory (surfeit is too much, plethora is too many and I have a plethora of surfeits going on here) stuffings.
Dreams of a more balanced life pass the window of my sleeping mind and are lost unseen in the travel I must wrest from my tired eyes; my ears are dead in resurrected hopes for the sound of a dream come through up against the (other side of the) wall. But I’m used to it.
Another dancer fences the music and brings his rapier-like inebriation to riposte and parry against the flow of beat (like a conductor leading the symphony in trained ticket collection and punching) in the battery of sustained attack. En garde… punch, punch… here’s your stub. Perhaps he should try ballet. I speak to the (whirl)wind as it swirls a damp cloth by my perch in the corner (I hold my breath as if it were performing a swan lake song), but my words are lost below the depths of the liquid waves upon which I continue to float face down. (I wouldn’t be able to see to write if I was face up, silly.) My breath is (still) held, but losing grip, my cover from the night teeters in the laxity while the rain still thunders over all. My drowning carries the charms of light and fire (still haven’t figured that one out. I think there were candles, lit and set in the windows of the latter night to help lost souls find their way back home and out of the bar so they could close up), giving me vision beyond the overwhelming force (how many ways can I describe the noise and still keep it as fresh as the pain it gives?) of sound and sets my ease at comfort for the dreams this evening may yet hold. (I dream of some piece of quiet.) Sleep well.
The party is over, it’s time to haul it away.
Winter is releasing its hold and summer warms to the chance it has to give credence to our offered days. Would that a mediator would spring forth and fall upon the transitional environmental susceptibilities in keeping time with the conditionally regulated music of nature. But we take what we get, choice or not, and we take what we can with us as we grow on into the sounds of our lives, heard in the fields and forests (and barrooms) of our hearts.
On beyond.
What’s that funny sensation? Oh… the silence beyond the noise…

Icicle Ossicles

Icicle Ossicles

The Backyard Version (cheap and easy) Of Swan Lake

The Backyard Version (cheap and easy) Of Swan Lake

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