As I begin many of these rambling works of utter madness (totally okay calling them that) in the same manner, it seems only appropriate to start this in the same manner I always have: with an anecdote. Because in the end all we ever are or will be are a series of anecdotes that we decide to reflect on, regardless:
Music festivals and–well, subsequently massive concerts, have always been fascinating looks at how silence fits into the proverbial cracks of our lives and live’s there almost absolutely, since such little attention seems to be paid to it we relegate to a place of calm and peacefulness. But isn’t the silence the thing that tells use that there is noise in the first place? The negative space around you that tells you there’s something happening because you keep going back to the still roar of the wall of nothing.
The discomfort when having to deal with absolutely nothing is rather a peculiar phenomenon. One’s senses become enveloped in this whirlwind of their own reflections, wherein even iota of sound would bring about a ripple of chemical reactions and neurological transmissions of over indulgent ilk that we cannot hope to understand until we realize that they’re just needed, because they are, until the day science comes back and give us empirical proof that it exists otherwise or affirms it (if that last sentence, wasn’t read in one breathe, I’d highly recommend reading it as such out loud, genius)
so when the bottom, well– Bottom’s out, how sure are we that there’s nothing there to hear? To be fair, through many sensory deprivation studies in the 1960’s( if need be i can cite them, but for the time, let the rambling commence), patients subjected to zero pressure, sound proof chambers, many experienced a sort of madness that could only be described as a weariness because the sounds they began to hear were themselves. The beating of their own hearts, the blood in the veins, the extensions and depressions of tendons and ligaments. The paints are said to have gone mad, and the absolute silence of the environment around them had done it to them. Rather, the silence of the external sensory input, that allowed the mind to focus on base processes, began to turn on itself and rapidly changing itself.
Giving credence to the idea that changing a person can be done primarily with absolute silence. Even more so, someone looking for the silence can use it as a means to understand something pretty fundamental about how one perceives sound and thus find music festivals and massive concerts the perfect venue for luring out the true beauty of the silence we seek ever so dearly, by giving ourselves a space in between to love it ever the more.
So I propose, that the next time one goes to a musical show of some kind, to listen for the silence, the truly uninhibited stillness between the notes, the chords, and the inevitable harmonic lead. Or while at a massive music festival, particularly edm festivals where the music is predictable to a relative degree and one see’s the crowd engaging in similar matters, stop. Look around at the cacophony of sound and movement and oscillation around. See how the music is reverberating not from the speaker but from the sound of the people around you.
Finally, when the beat does eventually drop, which is a strange manner in which to refer to a piece of music having a particular sort of trigger in order to make people go absolutely berserk, stay perfectly still, and notice the subtle cacophony of silence that envelopes you as the wall of flesh and bone around you reflects the longitudinal wave as the Doppler effect reverbs the bass at you, you feel where the music sits, where it holds itself when its not trying impress anyone, or make sure an idea has been expressed at the appropriate time, because its the time that takes the bulk of the want, making the being there with the silence, the infinite rhythm of breathing in and out was a desperate attempt to find out that the silence might just show you nothing.
That you may find the inside the cracks that there is nothing to find, that the silence is just there to remind you that there was something before, and there will be something after. Its the space in between, that tells you that you might just be good enough to keep going to keep up with the idea of yourself that keeps having to change.
But the silence is getting longer and longer, it see’s less and less as to what came before, and what it means to look ahead. At what will be and how it will come to be, a subtle cacophony of whimsy and hope, that maybe, the silence is like me, just trying to find its way to the next place where it would hope to understand and hope for a better moment, where it can rest. At the middle of the sine wave, where it is not pulled up or down, into madness and through eternity. But then again, where’s the fun in that?