It’s as if she can’t stand to be without sound. There’s a constant humming about her. It’s little fragments of songs, familiar syllables, the occasional bilabial fricative thrown in for punctuation. I’ve considered buying her a harmonica.
We live with mental noises of our very own. How can we really be sure that the language we speak, that we think comes from our mouths, is really what is heard by those that we converse with? There’s got to be a disconnect. Otherwise, how can we speak so perfectly clearly and certainly and be so totally misunderstood by others?
I’d never heard the phrase “inner monologue” until recently. It’s very descriptive. We’re all aware of our “stream of consciousness.” It’s meaningful to us most of the time, if not necessarily to others. James Joyce demonstrated that in Ulysses, a major literary work that is almost totally inaccessible to his readers.
My hypothesis is that some of the craziness we encounter from day to day comes from too much disruption of our inner monologue. We have become addicted to noise.
Take for example, my soon to be retired 65 year old college intern, Joe (See My College Intern). Joe is addicted to Republican Radio. It squawks all day in the back of the printshop. Worse yet, the addiction has rubbed off on Todd, who used to work in the back with Joe, but has moved into the design office along with another radio. The effect of Republican radio is similar to that of the super amplified bass speakers installed in many automobiles in West Macon. The excessive volume both dislodges nuts and bolts from the motor vehicle and turns the driver’s brain into pudding. Neurons no longer connect. The electrical charges fire aimlessly around the cranium. Sparks may fly from the earlobes, but the cognitive stream is permanently disrupted. The result is craziness.
Taking the example of Republican Radio a little further, the craziness becomes evident as the listeners actually begin to believe some of the propaganda. Worse yet, they start to think that it is important. The symptomatic effect of the amplified bass speakers seems less severe. The vehicles develop very strange looking wheels and occasionally an odd paint job. The drivers go deaf.
What has happened to silence? The humming woman I know seems fearful of it. She fills every second with noise of her own. People need time to filter out the static. Silence is where we find peace, a connection to God, a time for our synapses to reset, a return to a sensible, thoughtful and moderate way of passing through life.
Shhhhh . . . .