Call Waiting

I wish I could translate this ringing in my ears. The Muse might be trying to fax me.

When I was a kid, lying in bed at night, I heard the marching of many soldiers. On and on they'd march, in perfect synchronicity, night after night. My mother would finish another chapter in "The Borrowers" and turn off the bedside lamp, and I'd be lulled toward sleep by the unerring rhythm of those endless pairs of steady moving feet. Not until much later did it occur to me it was my own heart pumping my own blood that I was hearing. As a kid this thought would've unnerved me, far more than those patient marching soldiers.

But this ringing is different. Probably it's the Bell That Tolls For Thee. So far it's in the upper registers, no funereal depth charge rumble demanding my attention, ala, I am the ghost of Christmas yet to come! It's been with me for a few years now, like a soundtrack. It varies in decibel level, similar to the way in which the singing of crickets can suddenly become deafening, whereas a microsecond earlier one was lost in one's thoughts, unaware of the larger world, entombed in utter silence.

Speaking of which. I'm beginning to believe that Silence should be moved to the top of the Endangered List. Without a respect for Silence, or an understanding of the ramifications of its loss, none of the rest of it is possible. Silence is an integral component of all aspects of conservation and protection and general planet-saving. Am I wrong? Delusional? Hearing voices?

It's appalling how loud life has become. Even up here on the Tundra. I long for a good old-fashioned blizzard, like in the Old Days. Five or six or fourteen feet of smothering, sound-proofing snow, rendering the town...the county...the Midwest...the Northern Hemisphere...dumbstruck in an hermetically-sealed safe room of stillness. Man, I wish I could astral project to upstate New York right now. (Note to self: Astral project to woods to nullify snowblower factor.)

How about this: National Blackout Day. Or this: National Turn-It-Off Day. Or this: National Shut-The-Fuck-Up-And-Give-It-A-Rest Day.

In bed at night I dream of The Cabin. I dream of the Moose Wallows, a remote wetland about a mile-and-a-half back into the woods, discovered by accident while following old deer trails one blissfully aimless afternoon many years ago. I imagine a quiet so complete that a ruffed grouse moving along the forest floor sounds like an approaching Sasquatch. Another creature who seems to have been able to survive without a cell phone.

In bed at night I hear the shuffling of many ruffed grouse. Against that ubiquitous ringing ringing ringing in the background. Which, if it is The Muse, She's nothing if not persistent. Maybe She's stuck on Redial. More likely it's some cold-calling MuzeWannabeBitch trying to break into the biz. Who, if she ever does get through (probably during the dinner hour), will no doubt introduce herself with those dreaded words, "How are you doing this evening?", to which, before slamming the phone down, I once famously replied, "Sorry, but I'm just not interesting!"