Just for clarification, are we supposed to pick one of the five lines for the chapter or use all of them? These homework assignments are getting very challenging--LOL!!
As usual the deep quiet held too many demons and ghosts for my taste. I always felt the judgement coming out of the quiet. I didn't trust it.
So much of my early life was lived in noise chaos, that it became my default setting. I could not concentrate or even function unless there was a firestorm going on or a barrage of insults and curse words. That became my normal. It was when my drunken father, spittle running down his face, got quiet, that we all held our breath and closed our eyes, especially my mother. She, and we, knew what was coming next: the fists, the kicks, the spit. So we learned to fear the quiet.
Even today, as a broken adult, I need noise and confusion in my life, it seems, to be able to function, to be able to relate. The quiet is not to be trusted, only feared.
Those know-it-alls call it lying by a mission or something, but I don't believe in being cursed. So what if I said it anyway? Somebody had to. No need to hem and haw over the details. Point is he's been beat to the head so many times that the only sense he may be left is taste and it sure isn't palbearable to most. If I told him everything, he'd only take another blow. So, even if I did, which I didn't, not everything, he wouldn't remember it anyway. All this got me so confused. I know I promised I wouldn't say nothing, but at least I had to tell him about that lady in the river. He knew her after all. I knew her too, but he doesn't have to know that. You see, I can still keep a secret. So don't worry yourself about it. Don't let them do that to you. Those books give them all sorts of ideas. It's all superstitious if you ask me. Rowdy may be dumb and all, but at least when he has a thought it's his own. I probably shouldn't have said it. If I just talk to him long enough I'll confuse him. That's what I'll do. I do it to myself all the time. It's kind of like what they teach you with hypnoses. Do you want a cigarette? Here take my last one. Let's talk about something else.
If I couldn’t tell my mama my head felt like it was about to split open, I might have head-butted her too. And I couldn’t tell her that her behavior was sending me into orbit, that her predictable addiction to my father, allowing him home in the night, was going to go badly. Badly always meant tragically. How can she not see this? No words could affect her behavior. She responded to violence, although I could never act violently towards her. I’d never head-butt her. I couldn’t even tell her what I really thought. Everyone who knew her knew her response would either complete denial of one’s opinions or taking them so to heart that her only solution was to do herself in. I loved her with all my heart. How she reacted to men in her life created chaos for me until her last day.
“ It was quiet in the apartment.” Well, almost. Except for the irritating, incessant coughing I hear through these paper-thin walls. I come here to my “zen den” for a quiet respite from the bustling city. Waking up to the soft rustling of the trees and the chirping birds is a priceless thing. Yes, I will try to focus on that instead. I start my morning meditation with Chopra and repeat the daily mantra silently to myself. The usual distractions are there in my head, but I manage to return periodically to the mantra. As I slowly drift off, here it comes again. That hacking cough…I mutter “shut up, old man “ in my mind. No, that can’t become my mantra. I somehow manage to get through the rest of the meditation with minimal distractions. I feel calmer for a few brief moments. I look up at a framed piece of artwork with the most beautiful words ”-- oh Lord, help me heal.” It’s going to be a good day. I can feel it. I grab my essentials and head out to the beach.
It was quiet in the apartment. For a change. I wonder if he's okay up there. Oh wait, do I actually care? The incessant noise from the upstairs neighbor has tortured me for almost a year. He never leaves the apartment. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't sleep. Which means I don't sleep. There have been times when he's bounced a basketball at two in the morning. Because, THAT'S when you get the urge to dribble. Ever since I've moved into this apartment - my first apartment since leaving home - I've been subject to his ceaseless pacing and noise. His footsteps so heavy that photographs of my family and my framed art prints have been hurled off the wall at all hours of the night. I've resorted to sleeping with ear plugs but they don't block out enough of the noise. When I'm on the phone with friends or family, I am constantly asked, "What is that noise?" "Is that him?" to which I groan and say yes. He's also a chronic smoker. And, thanks to the terrific ventilation system, everything in my apartment is permeated with smoke. My clothes, my bed, my couch and my lungs. Wonder if they sell Febreze in gallon-size jugs? Not long ago, my doctor asked me if I smoked as it seems I have adult-onset asthma. He eyed me suspiciously as I said, "I don't but my upstairs neighbor does". I'm so tired. Working full time as a librarian and going to grad school is enough. But, y'all, I need a nap. A long, quiet one - sans earplugs. I've done the whole "banging on the ceiling with a broom" technique to no avail. One night, after I couldn't take it anymore, I banged on the ceiling with my broom - a broom that does more banging than it does sweeping - and I heard him come out of his apartment. Yes, he actually came outside. Stunned silence fell over my living room because he ran down the steps and twisted my doorknob. I was suddenly terrified. What would he do if I opened the door? What does he even look like? While I wanted to berate him and tell him to quiet down, I was scared. I silently thanked myself for locking the door and backed up. He raced back upstairs after a few tugs at the doorknob. I could hear his footsteps put pressure on each step as he ran. Once he reached his apartment, I heard the door slam. I waited with bated breath. It was quiet in the apartment. As I began to smile with relief, the pacing swelled to a ferocious stomp and poor Picasso’s "Guernica" fell at my feet.
If I never find the answers to those nagging questions, I won't hold anyone accountable. There's no reason to blame anyone. I will cry, sometimes deeply, for the loss and still not be overwhelmed. I am not going to fight those energies that insist on blocking me from knowing myself, keeping me in the blank void of empty loss. I'm moving on to the daily tasks ahead.
I apologize for not adding the sentence. I’ve never known more than I know now that most people are completely thrown by things that are out of their ordinary.
Just for clarification, are we supposed to pick one of the five lines for the chapter or use all of them? These homework assignments are getting very challenging--LOL!!
Just one of them.
It was quiet in the apartment. Too quiet, really.
As usual the deep quiet held too many demons and ghosts for my taste. I always felt the judgement coming out of the quiet. I didn't trust it.
So much of my early life was lived in noise chaos, that it became my default setting. I could not concentrate or even function unless there was a firestorm going on or a barrage of insults and curse words. That became my normal. It was when my drunken father, spittle running down his face, got quiet, that we all held our breath and closed our eyes, especially my mother. She, and we, knew what was coming next: the fists, the kicks, the spit. So we learned to fear the quiet.
Even today, as a broken adult, I need noise and confusion in my life, it seems, to be able to function, to be able to relate. The quiet is not to be trusted, only feared.
"And in a way, I wasn't lying."
Those know-it-alls call it lying by a mission or something, but I don't believe in being cursed. So what if I said it anyway? Somebody had to. No need to hem and haw over the details. Point is he's been beat to the head so many times that the only sense he may be left is taste and it sure isn't palbearable to most. If I told him everything, he'd only take another blow. So, even if I did, which I didn't, not everything, he wouldn't remember it anyway. All this got me so confused. I know I promised I wouldn't say nothing, but at least I had to tell him about that lady in the river. He knew her after all. I knew her too, but he doesn't have to know that. You see, I can still keep a secret. So don't worry yourself about it. Don't let them do that to you. Those books give them all sorts of ideas. It's all superstitious if you ask me. Rowdy may be dumb and all, but at least when he has a thought it's his own. I probably shouldn't have said it. If I just talk to him long enough I'll confuse him. That's what I'll do. I do it to myself all the time. It's kind of like what they teach you with hypnoses. Do you want a cigarette? Here take my last one. Let's talk about something else.
If I couldn’t tell my mama my head felt like it was about to split open, I might have head-butted her too. And I couldn’t tell her that her behavior was sending me into orbit, that her predictable addiction to my father, allowing him home in the night, was going to go badly. Badly always meant tragically. How can she not see this? No words could affect her behavior. She responded to violence, although I could never act violently towards her. I’d never head-butt her. I couldn’t even tell her what I really thought. Everyone who knew her knew her response would either complete denial of one’s opinions or taking them so to heart that her only solution was to do herself in. I loved her with all my heart. How she reacted to men in her life created chaos for me until her last day.
“ It was quiet in the apartment.” Well, almost. Except for the irritating, incessant coughing I hear through these paper-thin walls. I come here to my “zen den” for a quiet respite from the bustling city. Waking up to the soft rustling of the trees and the chirping birds is a priceless thing. Yes, I will try to focus on that instead. I start my morning meditation with Chopra and repeat the daily mantra silently to myself. The usual distractions are there in my head, but I manage to return periodically to the mantra. As I slowly drift off, here it comes again. That hacking cough…I mutter “shut up, old man “ in my mind. No, that can’t become my mantra. I somehow manage to get through the rest of the meditation with minimal distractions. I feel calmer for a few brief moments. I look up at a framed piece of artwork with the most beautiful words ”-- oh Lord, help me heal.” It’s going to be a good day. I can feel it. I grab my essentials and head out to the beach.
It was quiet in the apartment. For a change. I wonder if he's okay up there. Oh wait, do I actually care? The incessant noise from the upstairs neighbor has tortured me for almost a year. He never leaves the apartment. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't sleep. Which means I don't sleep. There have been times when he's bounced a basketball at two in the morning. Because, THAT'S when you get the urge to dribble. Ever since I've moved into this apartment - my first apartment since leaving home - I've been subject to his ceaseless pacing and noise. His footsteps so heavy that photographs of my family and my framed art prints have been hurled off the wall at all hours of the night. I've resorted to sleeping with ear plugs but they don't block out enough of the noise. When I'm on the phone with friends or family, I am constantly asked, "What is that noise?" "Is that him?" to which I groan and say yes. He's also a chronic smoker. And, thanks to the terrific ventilation system, everything in my apartment is permeated with smoke. My clothes, my bed, my couch and my lungs. Wonder if they sell Febreze in gallon-size jugs? Not long ago, my doctor asked me if I smoked as it seems I have adult-onset asthma. He eyed me suspiciously as I said, "I don't but my upstairs neighbor does". I'm so tired. Working full time as a librarian and going to grad school is enough. But, y'all, I need a nap. A long, quiet one - sans earplugs. I've done the whole "banging on the ceiling with a broom" technique to no avail. One night, after I couldn't take it anymore, I banged on the ceiling with my broom - a broom that does more banging than it does sweeping - and I heard him come out of his apartment. Yes, he actually came outside. Stunned silence fell over my living room because he ran down the steps and twisted my doorknob. I was suddenly terrified. What would he do if I opened the door? What does he even look like? While I wanted to berate him and tell him to quiet down, I was scared. I silently thanked myself for locking the door and backed up. He raced back upstairs after a few tugs at the doorknob. I could hear his footsteps put pressure on each step as he ran. Once he reached his apartment, I heard the door slam. I waited with bated breath. It was quiet in the apartment. As I began to smile with relief, the pacing swelled to a ferocious stomp and poor Picasso’s "Guernica" fell at my feet.
If I never find the answers to those nagging questions, I won't hold anyone accountable. There's no reason to blame anyone. I will cry, sometimes deeply, for the loss and still not be overwhelmed. I am not going to fight those energies that insist on blocking me from knowing myself, keeping me in the blank void of empty loss. I'm moving on to the daily tasks ahead.
I apologize for not adding the sentence. I’ve never known more than I know now that most people are completely thrown by things that are out of their ordinary.