Shhh

I’ve been feeling quiet of late. I don’t mean that I haven’t been speaking very much, although that also happens to be true. My lack of verbal communication, however, is fairly consistent among the male species and should not be interpreted as anything other than normal maleness. No, I mean that I feel quiet. I don’t know how else to explain it.

My brain, normally voluminous in it chattering, has gone whisper-soft. It’s lovely, actually, the lack of mental bombardment. The general cacophony has stilled and I find long stretches of the day go by without my having had a single, discernible thought beyond those urgent snatches of conversation telling me to eat, drink, and poop. Nothing else particularly registers. And it’s fine. More than fine.

It’s great.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’ve been listening to a lot of music these days. That’s not a normal occurrence. Months can go by without me actively seeking out music of any sort. Lately, though, I’ve been craving its companionship. It doesn’t matter what I’ve been listening to particularly, but because I know you’re going to ask, I will answer.

If you were to crack open my skull, I imagine my brain would currently look a lot like this.

In heavy rotation at the moment: “He Got Game” by Public Enemy as well as much of the rest of their canon, most of Radiohead’s oeuvre, a lot of modern classical music (an oxymoronic phrase which I would like to have publicly throttled in a public square), and a fair amount of musical sampling to determine what out there is worth spending more time on. Turns out, there’s a lot. Billie Eilish, for example - who knew? I subscribe to several “new music” playlists which would keep me up to date if I bothered to look at the names of the artists playing in my ears.

I suspect the music is either complementing my stillness or, perhaps, causing it. I don’t know and I don’t care. That’s one of the other components of my quietude, a general lack of care. Which isn’t to say that my reservoir of anxieties has been depleted, merely that I am not spending any of my time gazing upon it from the shoreline. Instead, I find myself in a kind of happy fug. Or, maybe “contented” is a better word.

I am contented to think not very much while I do not very much. I listen to music or play music on the piano or crawl under covers for a nap or a second nap. Today, for example, I am in chilly Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania for a few comedy shows. As I write these words, it is 4:23pm. I’ve been in bed the entirety of the day watching Netflix, sleeping, and just now I’ve taken a shower. I’ve eaten nothing and feel no strong desire to do so. In a couple hours, I will go to work and then I will return to my happy cocoon at the Fairfield Inns and Suites.

Yes, I am well-aware that what I am describing neatly fits the definition of “depression,” although I have to say as somebody who has spent much of his adult life being depressed, what I’m experiencing right now bears no resemblance to that. While the symptoms appear much of a muchness, the expression of the malady (if that’s what this is) is not at all the same for the simple reason that there’s no “depression” in this depression. If I’m depressed, I hope I stay this way.

It's lovely not giving a proverbial fig. It’s not that I don’t care about myself or anybody else, merely that their troubles leave me somewhat unruffled. This is far preferable, in my estimation, to taking on their problems the way a sinking boat takes on water. This is my normal mode of operations - somebody expresses their problems to me and I find myself empathizing in a way that leaves me feeling as depleted as them. Better to float above it all, at least for the moment.

God, it sounds as I’ve been popping pills. I haven’t been, though I would be happy to do so if anybody has any. No, I just mean that my brain seems to have decided that enough is enough. No more pacing and whinging and worry. Instead, I am devoting this time to music and lentil soup and good bread. My brain has called for a time-out and I am obliging. Syria may fall and I will not care from this good-enough mattress in Room 303.

There’s a concept in meditation I’ve never been able to quite get my head around. The idea of stillness in the mind. How is such a thing possible? Once one achieves that stillness, doesn’t the acknowledgment of the fact destroy the stillness? How does one reach that place without also disrupting it? While I don’t make any claims at finding that stillness, this feels to me like the closest I’ve ever gotten. I am quiet and I am still and I have not much desire to do anything, nor do I feel any compunctions about my lack of desire to do anything.

I wish I could give advice as to how to enter this particularly tranquil environment. I wish I had some idea of how long I will remain in this happy (contented) place of suspended animation. If you’d like to visit me here, though, perhaps you should invest in a good pair of headphones. Or find yourself, as I somehow have, with a lack of significant responsibilities to anybody, a job you like, and, for the first time in years, enough money in the bank account to - at least for a little while - keep the wolves at bay. Which is good because wolves can be quite loud and, at the moment, I prefer the silence.