Thang Nguyen 555

We are living in the age of the Megaphone: zooming out from any city, the sight might be breathtaking, but the sound dotted with white noise and all.

Lots of sound: high, low, medium, baritone, tenor, alto etc… “I heard he sang a good song…I heard he had a style”.

We need our stories to be told, our tales to be heard, and our rights to be observed. Our day in court. Both small “c” and one day, big “C”. Have you been baptized? For insurance should we face Judgement Day.

For smaller “c’s”, the worst is to be sentenced to silence. 24/7 in confinement. No one to talk to. To tell our tales to. To rant and rave. To be listened to.

In listening, we withhold our pre-judgment (without wearing a robe) until BOTH sides are heard. Every day, we play judge and jury, without being conscious of it. When there is no one around, we turn against ourselves: pulling out “cold” cases from the past e.g. that guy crossed me, that gal rejected me.

At times, I want to completely erase the past. Press reset, reboot.

Uploading ALL memories to the cloud somewhere and never have to deal with past unsolved cases. Heck. You don’t really live until you stored up a bunch of running-in’s.

People self-project. They disliked themselves, hence immediately notice imperfections in you. From there, it’s easier to pick on what’s out there, as oppose to what’s in here.

Inside, the noise gets louder and louder as outside gets quieter. Here is the progression of inner and outer communication: first, we heard voices of the nurse and doctor, our mom and closed families. Then we , at least me, heard the sound of drum beat, telling us it’s time to end recess.

Many of us growing up hearing and learning to ignore the sound of gun shots, of B-52’s rumbling, and of terrorist getting chased on rooftop. Those same roof first rain often bounced off, announcing a long overdue wet season. Rainy and dry. Half a year wet, half a year dry. No way around it. Just the way it is.

So we learn to tune out what can’t be controlled. We learn to crowd out the rain outside, playing the guitar, singing a song. “I heard he sang a good song…I heard he had a style”.

Many smoked. Others clung their beer bottles. Just to pass the time. To coast. To count to the end without making it count. Stoically. What else can you do. B-52’s can’t solve it. Kissinger kisses my *ss. Johnson, Nixon and Ford. Sounds like car dealerships in Motor City. Can’t solve it.

So we went on, putting blinders on our eyes and ear plugs in our ears. Seeing no evil, hearing no evil. Until Judgement Day. The rain on the leaves…on the tin roof…on our wet pavement.

“Hot cakes here”…the sound of peddlers and street vendors. Of those widows and orphans of war.

Echo in my mind. No pension no regrets.

Just live on. Finish up what you did not start. This wretched life whose ending no one knows.

Sentenced to a life of silence. Of grief unobserved and tales untold.

Among the living and the dead, the later are assumed to be at rest, more peaceful (R.I.P.) while the former tossed and turned even while on top of the most expensive mattress there is in Costco.

They say stress will kill you. I say, it’s silence, not stress, that does. Slowly, deliberately and mercilessly.

We’re both judge and jury. Of our own shame and guilt, buried deeply in the past, waiting for the labeled “cold” case to be re-opened in light of new evidence. Memories are selective. But never completely erased. If we are ever see real peace, it’s within ourselves when no one is watching.

We’re all sentenced to silence, eerie sound it tends to and should be….

” In restless dreams I walked alone Narrow streets of cobblestone ‘Neath the halo of a street lamp I turned my collar to the cold and damp When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light That split the night And touched the sound of silence ”

Sound of footsteps on street of cobblestone, of gavel on wood …just give it some time, coming, coming. Bam! Then zooming out of any city, lots of lights yet without noise. Sentenced to silence.