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www.kevacho.com
©2002-2024
Kevin Michael Vance
Writer - Portland, Oregon
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April 13, 2012
The essence of silence
When I was younger, I never thought I would lose my love for music. In truth, I have not. I love music just as much at forty two years of age, as I did when I was twenty two, playing my drums, writing songs, and loving life. However, I have found that my NEED for music has changed. I do not require it as I once did; permeating every second of my life, wishing that I did, indeed, have a sound track that would rotate through my brain; part Dead Can Dance, part Peter Gabriel, part Hans Zimmer, and part Basil Pouldaris. What I require now, what I yearn for, as I once yearned for music as if it were breath, is quiet. Silence. The essence of no sound; or more to the point no human generated noise; no cell phones beeping and squawking and chirping and humming, no pounding sub-woofer vibrating the ground as if it were the irate hand of some long-forgotten god pounding the pavement in irritation, nonplussed at being ignored, no wailing car alarms, no obnoxious screamers conversing publicly on the aforementioned cell phones, no shambling footsteps, no ostentatious whistling, no whir of traffic helicopters, no growl of diesel engines, no buzz of the pervasive, pernicious, and incessant miasma that hangs like black smog over every city and town, every village and holdfast, across this country and abroad. Simple, exquisite, beatific silence.
As I boy in the mountains of Montana I have experienced such nirvana-like silence. As an adult held hostage in a city of rain and rot, I seek it, in every corner and every nook, in the dark places in my mind and the shadowed realms within the city. I hope to some day find it. Thereupon dwelling, for the remainder of my existence.
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