the Echoes of Silence

"Fools" said I, "You do not know

Silence like a cancer grows.

Hear my words that I might teach you,

Take my arms that I might reach you."

But my words like silent raindrops fell,

And echoed

In the wells of silence.

—from "The Sound of Silence"

by Paul Simon—

In an effort to get people to look

into each other's eyes more,

and also to appease the mutes,

the government has decided

to allot each person exactly one hundred

and sixty—seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear

without saying hello. In the restaurant

I point at chicken noodle soup.

I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,

proudly say I only used fifty—nine today.

I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond,

I know she's used up all her words,

so I slowly whisper I love you,

thirty two and a third times.

After that, we just sit on the line

and listen to each other breathe.

—"A Quiet World"

 by Jeffrey McDaniel—

When I first met him, Mitch the Cat did not speak.

His public reason was a vague and complicated spiritual one (if he did not deign to answer a question, he would not, and you would have no idea, either).

His private reason was that he only had so many words in him, and each had a possible price tag.

But the true reason for an incredibly witty and charming man to impose a vow of silence upon himself? Hell, I don't know. However, I do know that he didn't know either. Noemi probably did.

Perhaps he craved simplicity (we all do). Perhaps he found his image of himself in a social context too painful to be constantly reminded of. Perhaps... well, perhaps it is better—certainly easier—to accept that neither of us will ever know. Though we do both wonder.

He once told me:
I wish I had a twin. Or a soul mate, I guess—that could work. Someone who I could really talk to. Who understood me and I understood him or her. Who had the same sense of humour and the same ideals but someone exquisitely argumentative. I could talk to him all day long and never spare a thought."

I was hurt. Was I not his soul mate?

Perhaps he just wanted to converse with himself for a while.

Oh I remember this so well:

He grabbed my arm. I was still. Without turning I felt I could see him. He did not speak; I did not breathe.

My whole world was a stunning orchestra of silence.

I did not turn, so he turned me with a yank and a grunt and a dour but interested expression.

He was ever immaculate in an oxymoronic way. Unkempt yet pristine. His clothes were worn and did not match, his hair was astray from lack of brushing and the many times a day he would run his left hand through it in random directions, his shoes were eccentric beyond the point of ugliness. Yet he knew all this. He knew the place of every hair on his head and he knew exactly how he looked and how people saw him.

He hated the knowing. A personal curse, he called it. But he sure used it to his advantage, for he could maneuver a situation to whatever suited his purposes. A god of cynicism and poise; a vile and beguiling trickster, to be certain.

Whenever I tired of calling him Mitch the Cat, I christened him Loki.

We were of a height and build but could not have looked more different. He was lean and tough and confident and pissed off as I am gangly and soft and cautious and brooding. He was fire and air as I am water and earth. Ever from the mud I watched him soar and belch flame across my firmament.

He was a phoenix, a fox, a hawk; I a panther, a gecko, an owl.

I could go on.

When I was blinded by the tortuous sunlight of my world, he was my night.

He wanted to see the world in black and white and knew that, whereas I just hated all the different colours and (for such a very long time) didn't understand so.

He is my prophet, but I was never his disciple.

He frowned at me in consternation and then whipped out a small notepad like the ones journalists and waiters use, scribbled quickly and then showed it to me:

Can I buy you a drink?

He was kidding, sort of. I knew it in a second. I understood in a way nobody had ever understood him before.

My first thought was, he lied in every word,

said Browning, and he says it far better than I:

That hoary cripple, with malicious eye

Askance to watch the working of his lie

On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford

Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored

Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

He has scared me infinitely.

But gods, he had beautiful handwriting.

I don't know what I said in return, I don't even think I knew at the time. I don't remember anything I said all that night, in fact, which I think is a good thing. And I said much. But I (we?) usually focus far too much on what I have said, what I should have said, and what I might or will say.

I was scared of him so I said no. Scared of how I had felt when I read his simple question. Scared of something I couldn’t possibly have named at the time. I forgot Noemi; I looked for one more second at him and then I left the beautiful house as quickly as I could.

The desert was chilly at that time of night at that time of year, and so I stood outside in the cold and looked at nothing and tried not to think about anything, either. Noemi found me out there, and she was very happy—far too much so, really—to tell me that she had found a friend and we were going to his place to have a quick drink.

I suppose he had thought it out during the meal and decided his plan of action: approach me first, out of subtlety and feigned respect. But when I quite rudely declined, he turned to Noemi, his real target.

And why did she accept, you most certainly wonder? A few reasons: it was a rather boring dinner, and so she was trying to make something presentable of it and she was getting back at me (it wasn't my damn decision to go down there!) in one crisp swoop; and she liked him too, she liked his energy and his sheer will—a will so sheer you could taste it in the air and feel it stab through your eyes to find your meek soul. Plus, he was genuinely, if not extensively, famous.

He had given her directions; he was there waiting for us, though I never saw him leave the professor's. He had prepared three Sazeracs and left the bottles on the kitchen counter; he had written a note in preparation:

Hello companions.

There is so much you want to tell me.

Do not worry. I will listen.

I am here, for you.

Welcome.