Friday 7 September 2012

Sounds in Silence

Four minutes and 33 seconds of silence.
The conductor walks to the podium; the orchestra, all wind and brass, raises its instruments, the musicians look to him expectantly and he raises his arms in a flourish that means 'begin'.

And they do. They slowly lower their instruments. And the conductor lowers his arms, bows his head and stares at the second hand on his watch. And the musicians just sit. And we just sit.

Despite what the programme notes say (three movements of 'utter silence'), silence was never what John Cage intended. The void will be filled, albeit unintentionally. He knew that. And that is how it is.

Someone swallows, there is a rustle of paper, knee and ankle joints crack as someone uncrosses and re-crosses their legs, a seat creaks, a cough, outside a siren wails, there is the husshhhh of air conditioning, a deep thrum, a vibration - the underground?

The trumpet player is trying to look engaged but he has the whisper of a smile at his lips that suggest he thinks this is all ridiculous.
The conductor raises his arms to indicate the ending of the first movement and then lowers them again.

He breathes in sharply and exhales loudly, throws his palms aloft, agitated, as if to imply energy and fizz - a silence of some substance and vigour then.
Someone's stomach yaws and rumbles, the squeak of the leather of someone's shoe, distant footsteps, a door opening and closing, low voices, a stifled sneeze.

In the quiet that is not silence, senses become heightened so when someone parts their lips I hear that too. There's a rush of blood in my ears. I fight the sudden urge to snort, to laugh..

And I know we are all thinking how noisy the silence is. I think we can all hear the beating of our hearts.

Silence? Not while there is life and breath..

'Oh look at him, bless him'.
I hold on to those words. They mean 'look at him, sleeping, when it's past breakfast time'. They mean 'It's not like him to lie in'. They mean 'ha, a typical teenager, at last!'.

They mean nothing is wrong. They mean all is well.

But in the nano seconds after the words are uttered, as we stand in the doorway and gaze upon you there is something else. A thickening. An absence. A silence.

And I can't remember who moves first, I think it is me. And in the two short, quick, strides that take me to your side I know, because of the silence, that it is already too late.

Because the silence has filled the room, it chokes us, it is a form all of its own.
You are here but you are not here.

And in the ensuing cacophony, the dialling 999, the crying disbelief, the weeping, the sirens, the blue lights, the men and women, crowding in, their beeping machines, pulling us away, the jagged radio conversations, the whole mass of movement and noise... there are the sounds of silence. Of your silence.

You are there but you are not there, in your all-in-one green pyjamas with the zip up the back, and your cool, bare feet and your long, elegant fingers and your face, still sleeping, after all they have done to you, all they have tried to do, with their machines.

And when it is over, when my hands have been taken by a kneeling paramedic, even though I already know, I already know, and as people come and go, as statements are taken, forms are filled in, as cups of tea are made, as someone calls the undertaker, they snuggle you back into bed and when I see you for the last time, there is you and me and the silence.

And you are asleep and you are not asleep.

I sit next to you on the bed, and the door on the world on the noise of the world, is quietly closed behind us. A policeman has opened your window wide and cold air curls into the room. I pad down the duvet around you to keep you warm.

In the world outside, there are sparrows sparring, bickering, and a group of walkers stomp past the window in their heavy walking boots. They are singing. One leads with a loud, joyful 'Faldereeeeee! Falderaaaaaa!' And the rest of the group join in: 'Falderaha ha ha ha ha ha! Faldereeee.....'

They don't hear the silence and their noise doesn't break it and the irony of it all, of their being so full of life and living, makes me smile a little. If only they knew. And it is as if the world turns and turns again and we are separate, apart, cocooned in our silence.

Your forehead is downy and smooth, your cherub lips are closed, I lie down next to you, put my arms about you and whisper to you and sing to you but I can't remember any of what I say.

And then, because I have to, I take my leave. They have told me that is what I must do. I know they will look after you. I know you are not really here. They take me upstairs while they take you away.

And then you are gone. Really gone. And the silence goes with you. And the absence of your silence is deafening.

'There is no such thing as an empty space or an empty time. There is always something to see, something to hear. In fact, try as we may to make a silence, we cannot..' John Cage (Sep 5, 1912 - August 12, 1992)

* 4',33" was performed by the La Monnaie Wind Quintet and La Monnaie Brass Quintet at the Salle Fiocco Brussels, on Sep 5, 2012 as part of the city's celebrated KlaraFestival.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Cage