Contemplating Quiet.

6 min read

Deviation Actions

queenhrosie's avatar
By queenhrosie
1 Favourite
18 Comments
1K Views
Contemplating Quiet by Robin Ekiss

—Dickson Experimental Film, 1894–95

To contemplate quiet,
start with the first marriage
of sound and image:

seventeen seconds of film
in which two men are dancing
to the wheedling strains of a violin.

One steadies the other
and turns him toward the light.
They hold each other's waists,

struggling against the convention
of their weight. The violinist
scrapes out a barcarolle, a song

a gondolier devised to stroke
the riverbed, mosquito-thin
melody about the joyful, lonely life

of men at sea. No woman's in sight
or earshot; her voice,
recorded in smoke, lies still

at the bottom of a drawer, transparent
and tough as a beetle's wing
broken off in flight. This is memory,

then: nothing to imagine
beyond the frame, one man's song
buzzing the air again and again

like bees bearding the wall
of a hive, as if to prove
its existence unaltered

by the loop of history.
What synchronized mystery
accompanies them

to hold us so tightly in their grasp?
Did they suffer in silence,
or because of it? Underfoot,

the persistent itch of sand
in a shoe, the circumstance
of who's leading whom,

the unspoken conversation
one whispers into the other's ear
that we'll never hear—

the taciturning circle that suffices
when a word will not.
Wedded to wax, quiet's extinct

as the horn that throws its contrail
shadow to the sun-struck floor,
extinct as the phonograph's

flat-scratched cylinder,
whose cone pulled discord
out of rhyme. In the space between

notes, the absence of women
is easily accounted for,
but even an echo leaves room

for sound. To contemplate quiet,
shut your mouth, as they did,
until nothing comes out.


.

Vegas was.
As it always is.

I like to go to Old Strip and drink at the shitty casinos and dance and smoke cigars and wear Elvis Presley sunglasses.  As a rule, I never take photographs.

The Venetian was fancy and marble floored.  Spoiled spoiled motherfucker.

Lately, I am thinking I need to get back to NY for awhile.  This whole AZ shit is getting to me in many ways.

I have a big goal to accomplish by May 22nd.  Will write on that later.

As always, vote for my novel here: textnovel.com/story_detail.php… .  If I win, I might some more longer things, but at this point I am about to scrap a lot of things, on this site as well.  After May, I might work on my real-life lack of real-work, yadda yadda.  So no writing.  Just a lot of noise, which I miss.  Noise.  Noise, drinking, lights, and the skull and crossbones they put on poisons.  I poured a bunch of that on an anthill outside today.  I'm a sicko.

.

Follow my nonsense on Twitter: twitter.com/HRBell . I'm about as boring and reclusive and self destructive as they come.

.

Today I went to the park and I cried a lot.  I try to be zen about a lot of things, but they get to you.  

.

I have a lot of things to say and no way to say it, so there is just a lot of silence and loneliness.  At some point today, I realized that I was not crazy, it was other people who were crazy, and I just tend to go along with things, when I should work on my

stop stop

.

I've thought about killing myself.
Funny story - I spend a lot of time worrying about other people, and I think it has been a long time since I worried about myself.  Funny story - my family hasn't spoken to me in more than six months.  Funny story - I could use a drink I could use a drink.  Funny story - these days, these things aren't funny or fun anymore, and they get harder and harder to push off my shoulders.  It feels like everyone's relationships are falling apart that we knew, that everyone turned out to be someone they were not.  Or else, they were really good at hiding themselves.

I feel like I have wasted a lot of crying on people.  I feel like I cry a lot, that's not normal. That's not normal, I fell asleep with the Excedrin and sleeping pills in my hand.  That's not normal, reading Romans just makes me think Paul was a woman-hating crazy person and it's just not calm around here anymore.  

I say a lot of things and a lot of them aren't true because I don't want people to worry about me or think I have made a lot of weird decisions just so people don't think I'm an idiot.  

Note: people see through you.

Confessions are funny things.  Once you start, you can't seem to stop.  An hour and a half later and I was still talking and I was saying the same things over and over and I wanted her to stop me at some point and say "here is what you do-" but people can't do that with your life - because it's your life not theirs.  

I used to write a lot of confessional poetry but then I stopped when it starting hurting people and now I write a lot of shit that is half-true or maybe half-lie and the dragons are the people who have hurt me and the birds are every place I have been and the references to hearts are the moments I have spent years hanging around clubs and dancing and playing games with men until they were hurt and broken, just because I could.

.








Can't speak/write/yesno/wail anymore?

Published:
© 2009 - 2021 queenhrosie
Comments18
anonymous's avatar
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
kiwi1607's avatar
i don't think i ever really wrote or was artistic in the ways i wanted to be.
so i kind of slowly stopped doing it all.
my-own-bane's avatar
My ex wrote an angry, hurtful poem about me this weekend because I couldn't speak to her anymore. I cover up how I'm really feeling around her with half jokes and shitty little sentences about my life that she already knows. She wants more of me - the real me - when I speak, but those words don't come out anymore. I can't speak.

I haven't written anything in what feels like a lifetime. I stare at blank Word documents and tell myself I have to snap out of it, but the words have gone MIA. I drink energy drinks and pull all-nighters that involve smoking and talking to myself about the things I wish I could put down on paper. I finished putting together my first poetry book manuscript, and I spend hours reading through it and trying to find what part made that man tell me I have a "God-given talent." I don't believe in his faith, and I can't write.
sunshinegypsy's avatar
I was holding a bird in my hand when it died and it felt a lot like a heart.

I always want to write things that are huge and irrefutable and I end up writing things that are small and glowing and no one ever sees that they are the same.

Sometimes writing when you can't is like walking through the desert to an oasis. Sometimes it's just like walking on a broken leg.
Sonneillon-'s avatar
I haven't actually written anything properly in 4 years >.< Who knows when this time will pass so I can get on with it.
neonxaos's avatar
There are phases. First, you wonder what the hell is going on. Then your body changes, and you don't care what the hell is going on, except you really, really do. Then things start making sense, your friends find each other in the darkness, in the light and sound, on wet grass, in endless summer nights. Everything is fine, then, for a moment. You think that this is it, this is life, motherfuckers, nothing can stop you.

Then something stops you. You realize that you will die. You realize that the world doesn't give a fuck what you say and do. Then you may or may not find some people who actually care, some people whose faces aren't glued on. Some people whose faces move. You can only tell by looking at them, year after year, and trace their patterns with little mental notes. I hope you find these people.

Another phase - everyone shows you pictures of babies, talks about babies, dreams about babies, talks like babies. Some even look at you with odd, hungry eyes. You fear that they want to suck out your soul and create new life like little gods. Nothing you ever did before can prepare you, it's a paradigm shift. You see that not only does the world not care, it also changes its own rules at will. You start not caring yourself. It saves your heart.

Then things start falling apart. The babies are not babies, the marriages are not marriages. Everything deceives, and you learn that Socrates was right. The more you know, the less you know. You develop quirks, you become angry and sad, you start drinking, you stop drinking, you start excercising. You learn that all the goals you had are unrealistic, but you pursue them anyway.

You start writing things like this to other people for no reason.

You are becoming eccentric, and that is one of the best things that has ever happened to you.
queenhrosie's avatar
How odd, that you were able to write it exactly as it is.

Thank you.

* :heart: *
neonxaos's avatar
Heh, well, not sure about that, but I just felt like writing *something*.

I think your writing has improved lately. Your rants remind me of Cormac McCarthy, only uniquely you. I would like to se an entire novel written like that. It would probably break either my head or my heart - or both - but it would be awesome.
Anarkhos's avatar
No, because I am the good, sorted, successful child now.

One could go mad from that kind of pressure. Of course, one wouldn't, because one is the good, sorted and successful child now.
screamandsugar's avatar
Can't speak/write/yesno/wail anymore?

sometimes I feel as if I have lost my voice and can seem to only say/do/act/feel/write the way that other people want me to. I contemplated this the other day, that there are words but they just don't seem to impact me the way that they used to. I read older poetry on another account of mine and was genuinely moved by how passionate and myself I was at that time but also by how much I seemed to feel and mostly I feel numb these days, also this is the first time I have said this aloud/but not aloud so I am somewhat in a wow state because I really hadn't thought about mememe in a while it's been mostly everyone else and it isn't to say that I am ridiculously happy just prone to being lost at times and not having one of those nifty if found please contact owner signs! uhm holy ramble batman... I know what it's like to be unhappy where you are I think was supposed to be my point.
E1andE2's avatar
It feels like everyone's relationships are falling apart that we knew, that everyone turned out to be someone they were not. Or else, they were really good at hiding themselves.

This is so naked and honest. It brings to attention the fact that quite recently my closest friend turned out to be Hitler in disguise.
herckle's avatar
Can't write anything good anymore but I don't think I ever did except for one thing, only the one. I think that your writing, however, has been exceptional lately, lies, half-truths, what-have-you.
ohsostarryeyed's avatar
i've been crying more than i should lately, i think you're still wonderful and you actually can say all this in a journal? i love you. even though you're a yankees fan.
Ahavati's avatar
Crying means you're warm and can feel. I couldn't imagine you cold.
nothought's avatar
this year has been
pretty shitty for a lot of
people. goodluck babydoll!

i have cried more
this year than any year
and learned maybe
i am not all that lion
i thought that i was, maybe i am
a little bit housecat instead.
johnpaulthornton's avatar
Well it's 330 am, when I do my best cycle of painting and when I always take a break and read my messages and write a bit.

Hey,

Life ought to make us cry, or laugh,

or else we are among the ones who don't get it.



JP
HugQueen's avatar
:iconhuggleplz:

I wanted her to stop me at some point and say "here is what you do-" but people can't do that with your life - because it's your life not theirs.

That's beyond true with me, I get those moments, more than once a week (sometimes day), where I just wish that someone would say: "You know, all you have to do is... and you'll be fine." Then I realize I'm the one who has to fill in that blank.

:hug:
GaioumonBatou's avatar
I find it interesting how your journals just flow as if the thoughts were the air passing through my head...it doesn't feel disjointed or confused, just honest and moving.

I'm one of those sorts that can never comment on content, you'll have to forgive me. I have the feeling your thoughts will carry you where you want to go, though.
I-meghan-I's avatar
i don't remember ever reading the poems that you put in your journals. so i read today's one. and it was beautiful. but i didn't understand it well.

last year i cried and i cried and i cried so much that i'm sick of it so i try not to cry anymore. i still do, but not nearly as much. and i am so much calmer now.

the year before that i fought and i fought and i fought so much that i'm sick of it now. i fought so much that in the end i was just tired and would just laugh because the fights went nowhere or just around in circles and they were for no reason but to fight. i think it's because he hated me a little because of a choice i made. he wanted to hurt me. he told me so.
so now i am sick of fighting. i don't like to fight. and i hate it when people around me fight about nothing when all it would take to diffuse the problem are just a few words, or a few less words, or a different tone. and it makes me realise just how stupid people are. and that they don't learn even if they do it over and over again.

and oh look. i'm talking about me again.

i think most people have thought about killing themselves at one point in their life.

and you should just say it. no matter how weird it comes out.

yeah... i'm done now.
anonymous's avatar
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In