The silence of the writing prompt

THE WRITER’S PROMPTS

I picked a writing prompt at random from 642 Things to Write About (San Francisco Writers), and it asked, What is the sound of silence and when did you last hear it? What was missing? And now I’m alone, but for memories…

Depression in menDepression in men: suffering in silence (British Psychological Society)

A less active mind (or one which doesn’t misfire like mine) might dismiss the questions as being nonsensical: Silence implies no sound at all, so the sound is nothing, and what was missing was any kind of sound at all. But that demonstrates no imagination at all. In an imagined empty room with no visible means of exit, there’d be no way out for those souls, when the two exits are to stop imagining (they never started), or to use one’s imagination (which they lack). In my mind, that would be a personal hell.

In amongst my pseudo-scientific atheist belief system is a theory of heaven and hell as personal, and an idea of what each looks like (to me at least). In the simplest terms, I understand how the quantum universe works, and how everything exists in parallel, in one or other state, before one is called into existence by a catalyst.

The simplest demonstration of foundation is the path which splits in two: I’m walking along a path, when I happen upon a fork in the road: Was it there before, when I couldn’t see it? For argument’s sake (and because I’m left-handed), I choose the path on the left. Assuming there are walls and I can’t see the path I didn’t choose, does it still exist? It’s a paradox but it’s useful in explaining death in simple terms.

I imagine the moment of death as little more than a blink of the mind’s eye. For now I exist in a place (a universe), which I’m aware of being around me and all that entails (including physical limitations). At some point in the future (possibly predetermined), my body will cease to function, but the universe in which it lived will carry on. Family and friends may mourn (or celebrate), but I’m not in that world any more. At least, my spirit isn’t.

I use the analogy of a radio or TV to explain my understanding of the human spirit: It sits for the most part, inanimate. But once switched on, it broadcasts. Those signals are always in the air around us, and the media device decodes them into sound and vision. It’s the same with the physical human body (the media decoder), and the spirit (the media itself).

My body now lies like a broken TV set in one universe, while my spirit suddenly became aware of different surroundings: ones in which I have no physical limitations. With no need for food, water, or air, I exist in a form which is free to explore. And I have an eternity to do it.

To me, that’s a dream. The door to all of the universe’s knowledge opens and I’m in a personal heaven. To someone else though, that same place might be hell. A different spirit might find themselves overwhelmed and unable to process their thoughts on what they’re witnessing and experiencing. That’s the sound of silence I’ll never hear. My silence will be me cursing unheard, frustrated at my message not getting through (I need to sign up for ghost courses and learn how to haunt people).

In my scientific atheist, the silencing sound is religion, an invention of man to suppress any thoughts outside a set of conditions, and the wrath of “God” upon all those who seek to disprove or deny him. The last time I heard it was when I tried explaining all this to a small audience. I can’t be sure if the blank expressions were blinded by a light going on, or simple minds blown. What was missing was either a collective imagination or visible clues of a group epiphany. But then I’d possibly just convinced them that God doesn’t exist.

Forest Gump never compared life to a jigsaw puzzle, but it was part of a short story I wrote once. I went on to suggest not following convention by starting on the outside. Just like life, I recommended doing the middle first. Because then the puzzle takes longer to complete. Think outside the box room, the puzzle box and the box of chocolates. That’s as simple as imagining what’s out there.

In using these writing prompts, I’m not really confronting my own fears though, am I? That’s why I originally started writing this blog: The world of the writer with depression. Maybe I can use them more. Perhaps I just did: Because there’s a silence not unlike that I described from my Christian conversion / aversion group: It’s the silence of being ignored. It’s been employed by some cultures as an effective mind-control technique, and outlawed by others (Imagine living in a place where you can’t be heard, despite being entirely aware of the world you inhabit, and the universe beyond).

That’s what isolation feels like sometimes, being overtly avoided. So with little but the thoughts in that empty room, the cracks in the mind of the writer grow larger, letting in the light. The silence of the indie vegetarian can feed on flesh fiction, while the culture vultures on the fringe feast on the spectacle. I remember a time…

The homeless man on the street holds his empty lunch container; a soup cup, hoping to catch another meal. All around, people rush to get out of the rain filling his cup. He’s grateful the storm keeps his head bowed, his face out of sight of those he once knew. He drinks, kissed by someone afar. Even when all the people have gone home into the quiet night, the earth is never silent unless you stop listening.

A countdown of improbabilities

THE WRITER’S LIFE

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I was at my physical prime. Today I lose prime number status as I turn 48. Birthdays aren’t what they used to be, which is somewhat stating the obvious, but there’s not so much to celebrate as you get older. It becomes less an achievement of making another year and of progress, and more a countdown of improbability.

landscape-1463492454-countdown-bumhole

I’m resolutely single (for many reasons, but I don’t see how anyone could live with me when I find it so difficult myself sometimes) and don’t go out much (no-one to go out with), so my opportunities to celebrate are limited, even if anyone else wanted to. Instead, this is one day of the year when I call the shots, when most days I’m dealing with the affairs of others (mainly the young people who still visit, and chiefly the adopted kid sister, Courtney). It’s my chance to be as selfish as all those people, but just for one day.

In my virtual life, I’ve been quite touched by the number of people sending birthday greetings on Facebook, a place which – despite its many faults – still kindles, ignites and stokes friendships with individuals I didn’t in real life. Some types seem to feel more at ease discussing things in a public forum, and I’m one of them. It’s because it’s less personal than a real world physical conversation, which eases my social anxiety. The virtual world has brought me closer to some people than the real world could, through mutual empathy with matters of the mind.

Anyone who visits my real world on any other day, knows to keep a distance on my birthday. There’s sometimes an exception, but that will only be someone who might be passing and whom I’ve chosen to spend time with if they’ve said they need mine. I don’t expect anyone to turn up and I’ll just get on with my day, but knowing someone might show adds a level of jeopardy (improbable though it is).

I’ll probably spend the rest of the day writing, like I should so many other days but for distractions. During my recent hiatus, while my dad was sick and I couldn’t think of much else, I filled several journals as I watched TV (mainly documentaries) and carried them around with me. My life will continue to be fractured as the lives of others progress in my real world, so my next book will most likely be a third collection of short stories, many of which are plotted and scribbled in longhand in those notebooks. Today gives me a chance to set out for myself, everything I want to do next.

My family history book is on hold, mainly through paranoid superstition, as my dad seemed to be in perpetual decline most of the time I was writing it. I’ve stopped, so as not to tempt fate (and he’s got better). I’ll start writing another novel once I’ve got a few new short stories finished, maybe the planned (and imaginatively titled) Cyrus Song II, or perhaps something completely different, from the many notes I made in those journals.

This one day a year reserved as mine, to collect my thoughts, think ahead, and in the company (if any) of my choosing, helps me get through the next year. I’ll be a prime number again in 2023 and a lot could happen between now and then. I only have to look at the last five years to know that’s true.

It’s improbable, but I might yet pen a best-seller (I may have done so already, and people just need to pick up the book). But I’ll keep writing anyway, probably into the night and probably in solitude.

I found myself in a place I never realised I wanted to be, around an imaginary birthday cake. Even if I hadn’t done everything I was supposed to with my own life, I could have another go. I felt like the living memory of my future self. Thoughts can be remembered or forgotten, so I wrote mine down.

(Simon Fry, Cyrus Song)