the decibels of silence

There is a high bridge-nosed blonde actor I’ve always referred to as Travis. That was his character in the first flick I saw him on and the name stuck. He’s starred opposite Love Hewitt, Amy Smart… and just now he guest starred in the third episode of House’s fifth season. The minute I see him, I think of the name Travis; it’s become automatic, almost as if it’s written on his forehead. I am holding back the urge to google him up because I don’t want to get disappointed. He looks like a Travis to me, and a Travis he will stay.

Just like the tech support guys in the office, I’ve talked to them via phone so some names come up on several occasions…but I don’t care enough to know who is who. The guy with the glasses, the chubby one, the guy who’s very presence brings atmospheric changes… I thought the one with the curly hair (and who always had his hands inside his jacket pockets) was Arnie. It turned out he wasn’t. He looked like an Arnie & it would greatly perturb me if he went by a different name, so I’m retaining the nametags I have for them in my head.

What does that say about me? That I’m disrespectful? Selfish? Comfortable in the truths I’ve set and cannot be swayed?

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There was no such thing as total silence, for me, as a kid. When it was too silent, I heard a ringing sound, a buzzing of some sort. On second thought, it’s neither a ring nor a buzz. It’s a constant beep, like a dial tone but more pitchy and stinging to the ears. Like somewhere, floating in one of the -ospheres of the world, is a giant tuning fork. I wonder now why I lost that sound. It’s either the world has not had enough silence to make room for the beep, or, and this is the frightening part, the beep was never there at all.

[Of dial tones, a flick is called to mind: Adaptation, where Streep’s character is on the phone because she couldn’t imitate the sound of a dial tone on her own, she then calls Laroche (Chris Cooper) and asks him to do a certain hum. He does so, and then she chimes in with a differnet note. There, a dial tone mimicry is completed and she puts the phone down].

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Impatience stretches travelling hours. This is a truth unbeknown to little children. They are scolded for this ignorance of time expansion. If you’re no longer a child, but has not gotten around to accepting this little truth, well, it’s either you’re immature, or you have a young heart. (If you assent to the first one, very brave of you; if you agree with the second, you’re in denial and therefore, a man inchoate).

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There was a thought in my head this afternoon, in a moment sandwiched by a two-part slumber. I couldn’t remember what it was, but I could remember thinking that it was clever–whatever it was that I thought of. It was wise. It made sense. I’ve had several scraps like that, disposed on a lost molecule of dust, wandering through a low-hung firmament unitl it settles on the ground and remains nothing but what it is, dust. Scrap.

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