Silence is a kind of luck

12 Jul

  I’m out in the back yard and it’s quiet. There’s a siren in the distance. Voices of kids in yards on the other side of the ravine. The breeze in the trees. Birds chirruping. Then silence for an interval and it feels like luck. I am reading the chapter Edeet sent me of her book, but I don’t feel like I am able to give it the attention it deserves, so I close the app I am reading it in and set my iPod on the table beside my chair. I get up from my chair and open the screen door and Mogie peers in, but stays where he is, on the mat outside the door. I go up to the kitchen and fix myself some cereal. I keep thinking about how I need to break up the rest of the hull of the piano and get that room cleared out before my vacation ends. Today is really the last day of my time off. Then it will be the weekend, and then Monday I go back to work. On the other side of the park, Ron is in his driveway coughing and I spend a moment hating him. People say hating, even for the briefest of moments, is a waste of precious time. A bird chirps loudly in the tree above me. I don’t hate the bird. I guess I feel like everything Ron does, even his coughing, is intentional and his intention, always it seems to me, is to irritate me by being an asshole. Whereas the bird just chirps and flies away, and if it has intentions, I have no idea what they are and I have no desire to figure out what they are because that bird doesn’t give a shit about me so there’s no hope that I can weave it into this pathetic story of mine. With Ron it’s different because he stopped talking to me a while back, after that night in the middle of last winter when I went over to his house and told him to stop having open fires in his driveway. He was burning something in a tin can, trying to find a way to keep himself warm so he could stay out in his garage all winter. That night, after I told him to cut it out, he doused the fire and didn’t light another one after that, but he hasn’t said two words to me since. Whenever I drive by his driveway in the car, he turns away and pretends to be busy.  I always think, What, are you four? But I’m secretly glad he hates me because it feeds nicely into the ongoing narrative I’m creating about myself day after day to obscure the real world as much as I possibly can.  Plus, once Ron gets talking to you he never shuts up and, as the story goes, people talking at me always makes me feel trapped and angry. 

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