Mute

This is from a jazz concert I went to on a whim (alone)

     I was writing another entry earlier today, but struck all of a sudden with emotion I put that one down and decided to get this one out and "onto paper" before I lost it.

     Lately I haven't felt like speaking all too much. It's weird. I go through these phases occasionally where I avoid it at all costs. Or interacting with others completely. As if the little man in my head decided to roll away from his desk, stood up from his seat, turned his chin upward, and leaned back until he fell back and slipped right through the corporate flooring into the open sky. I free fall from the clouds calmly back  into myself and let silence swallow me in its calm emerald waters that undulate gingerly bellow me. Much the same way solitude feels- an overwhelming relief. Unconventional maybe, but effective. Today, I believe I have spoken a total of 30 words. 24 of which only for the sake of classroom participation, the other 6 to chase some sneezes with "bless you"'s.

    I've done this before. Many times actually. 

    There came a day this past summer that I decided to give my former girlfriend a graduation gift. It was oddly timed, her graduation party having passed some weeks before, but I tend to run on my own schedules for these things. To me it was more than a send-off present, but rather my last tangible show of kindness I could offer, and the last excuse I had to swing by her home. See her cracked sidewalk we sometimes tripped on, the bushes rabbits always seemed to scurry into, the sign on her front yard, and hear her dogs bark happily from inside. My car had malfunctioned quite badly at the time, and was of no use. Or at least I think that's what happened. But some time ago, I decided after long hours of thought to get her a gift and ordered her something off of amazon. I'd decided that if I was to get her something, it might as well be uniquely special and uniquely "me". Something that was unmistakably my gift to her that she would not under any circumstance ever forget. Not pricey, not intricate, but thoughtful. 

    A while back, during the relationship on a particularly cold and rainy day, winds whistling and howling through my windows, I remember sitting in the kitchen. My mother hard at work baking some pecan-bites ( pecan pie flavored muffins ) and cookies, the aroma thick in my nostrils and eventually setting into my clothes as it did with the goofy red, frilly apron that my mother came to love, her hair tied back tight into a ponytail and sleeves rolled. I remember we were talking via text and whilst I planned out what I was to get her for Christmas, I paced back and forth as she told me that her favorite musical of all time was Singing In The Rain. And that her favorite movie was Breakfast At Tiffany's. The first more familiar to me than the latter, I decided to buy that one, and having supplied her with a taste of the pecan bites before and her positive response, coupled it with some containers chocked full of them and a hand written note. To be perfectly honest her liking's proved convenient considering that only moments prior that same night I had mentioned to my mother how bad I'd wanted to see the film. I packed these all into a bag my mother had saved from one of my early childhood birthdays, tied it with ribbon of similar origin, and gift wrapped the movie myself  that I took some time deliberately seeking out. And I gave her this gift in a sort of gift exchange prior to some plans we'd made for that night. I decided that eventually I would get her something to account for her other disclosed movie favorite, and come this summer, remembering all these things, stayed true to my word. As one would imagine, the gift given it's inspiration/ coming to fruition meant quite a lot to me. So much so that to calm my head and heart I spent the days prior in reflective solitude. A lot had changed since then. I didn't do much those days, and said remarkably less, lost in the tales of my past. Mulling them all over again in my head. The days I spent reading, and the nights I spent riding my bike on the obscure fringes of town, music holding my inner self and rolling my worn rubber tires. 

    This is how I prepared myself for the day I'd picked to deliver the gift. 3 or 4 days later, despite rain pouring, tedious tire repairs and the schedules it clashed with, I set out on my bike just the way I envisioned I would. She lived quite a ways away from my house, on the other side of town. But I indulged in the journey I'd embarked on. Overall the trip took about an hour, going from dirt trail to highway to neighborhood alley to busy intersection. Once there, the backpack I'd carefully filled was quite wet, but the gift was still intact given the insulation I created with clothes. I knew such things would happen. I was well prepared for it all. Even had a playlist to match the mood of the ordeal, or at least the one I aimed to maintain. My legs after some time were worn out, my back ached, my pulse was thick and sweat accumulated on my brow just as fast as the rain washed it away. A majority of the ride was uphill and a real battle. Somewhat symbolic of the thoughts and memories swishing in my brain with the lyrics that flowed steady and true from my ear canals, meeting in the middle. But I'd have it no other way. Once at her home, I paused for some time to soak it all in. All the memories and what have you. All the reasons I'd fallen silent the past couple days. She was home, I knew it, but couldn't get myself to bring knuckle to door. I don't really know why. Unloading the pack off of my back, I pulled out a sliced open Amazon package with the original, 1961 sheet music for one of her favorite songs "Moon River" for piano slipped inside ( it was a key part of the movie and pervading theme in the movie). Alongside it was a note I'd handwritten, the product of a few drafts, folded with clean creases and perfect symmetry. It took me some time to write the letter. A huge part of me was conflicted toward the necessity of such a gesture for a plethora of reasons. But I finally came to the conclusion that if I was to go through all this trouble to give her anything, I'd might as well make it "me" just the way she knew and just the way I was when we dated. Looking at it for a moment or two, I took a deep breath, and placed the gift into her mailbox. Shortly after, having taken a picture before I left, I sent her a message with a picture attached of her mailbox, telling her to check it when she gets the chance. For one reason or another I couldn't quite handle the situation that would arise from me being there in person in the off chance that she checked immediately with me still there. I didn't think I was quite able at the time to ground any question she might ask, namely the obvious one "why did you do this?". 

    She replied some time later, when I was about half way back home, thanking me for the gift and it was probably the most content I'd been in a while. 

    There are plenty of other examples I could provide, but I feel others wouldn't offer as much insight as this does as far as why, when, and how the silences come to be.