Silence
I sometimes don't know what to do. I sit and think, what should I do?
During the day this place is very quiet, at night even more so. I think the silence makes not knowing what to do more stark. Silence like a blank sheet of paper, you the writer with writer's block.
But actually that`s not right, because the silence is rarely total.
Sometimes I fail to realise that the silence is not total. That's because I've failed to listen intently, but when I do listen closely I can make out a bird pecking or leaves moving or a distant radio or the buzzing of the fridge, or a woman, far off, beating a carpet.
And even if silence (or almost-silence) might be absence it`s also (almost always) just an interval: temporary. When the quietness becomes too much and a certain woe grasps me, it's partly because I have forgotten that the silence will pass. It's not death.
So silence requires discipline to be enjoyed. You have to know it can and will stop, and then you can move around within it without feeling hopeless. Perhaps it's like being in a place and lost but knowing the place is safely limited by walls, even if they can't be seen from where you are.
When I had just moved into my previous place, I sat on the sofa at 10 pm and heard the rumble of buses and a roar of motorbikes delivering pizza: a noise invasion. I thought, Oh God I've made a huge mistake. An especially horrible mistake given the irony that I'd moved to the new place to get away from construction noise at the flat before.
There followed conversations about whether carpets or curtains could make a difference, might muffle the giant windows which had made the flat so bright and attractive when I had too cursorily inspected it before signing the lease. But it was concluded that the thin windows would require replacing if the noise were to be reduced by any discernible degree.
When the pandemic came, and with it lockdown, there was a magical time of quiet, of falling into a blissful dream. I sat on the sofa, blessed by the unexpected calm about me. But slowly the traffic noise returned, albeit thankfully without the buses.
Then I moved to this new place. It's in a funny enclave of cul-de-sacs and unambitious, dog-less houses with large gardens and long crumbling walls. A fringe place. Here and there tower giant, dishevelled pines. You might see one of the residents going for a stroll but it isn't common.
At times I still find it eerie. I think that, because of this, I must construct, (and perhaps am unconsciously already constructing) another way of thinking, a way of dealing with the perceived absence, those intervals between sounds, and the possession of space.
It seems to me that if I can find an easeful space, requiring nothing, then I will have advanced.
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Read to Edinburgh Creative Writers' Group, 30 March, 2021
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