Silent Music

The noise never stops.

I guess if you want it to stop, then you have to stop it yourself. Or at least that’s what I’ve come to realize.

I had this house specially built to filter out all noise. The house I’ve lived in for nearly forty years. The windows are hermetically sealed and soundproof. The walls were reinforced with several layers of concrete, insulation, and some specialized audio killing foam made in a lab by some MIT whiz kid I hired to eliminate the possibility of any sound coming into my house. I don’t think I was supposed to do this, as in I didn’t get any permit or anything, but I also had the foundation reinforced with extra concrete so nothing, especially sound, could get in from below.

It might seem excessive. It is. But I think it’s necessary. 

I live alone. I work from home. I don’t like to be bothered by the outside when I’m in my sanctuary.

It’s not agoraphobia, though. I go out all the time. I promise. It’s just a matter of not wanting to be bothered with the random sounds of life interrupting my work when I need to concentrate.

I have self-diagnosed ADD. Maybe ADHD, even. Either way, I get way too distracted way too often.

It might seem odd, but I’m a musician. I create silent music. I’ve engineered several different instruments, from a guitar to a piano, and several other percussion and string instruments to make no sound whatsoever whenever I play them. It might seem a bit counterintuitive. It really is. But I still am moved to tears by a well played silent piano.

There’s that ineffable moment of bliss while jamming to the rhythm of nothing that puts me at ease, relaxes me like nothing else. I can’t say I have a huge following. In fact, I don’t think I have any listeners. Nothing on Spotify or Youtube or any other venue that might get a listen or two. And it’s been awhile since my manager booked me a gig at any music hall or stadium.

But that’s all for the best. The sounds of the audience ruins my music. They always have. It’s odd, but my music is best when it’s enjoyed by no one. I don’t make any real money from it, to the chagrin of my mother, but I’ve learned to live life with a greater treasure than some pieces of debt paper could ever provide: silence.

When my body started to betray me, though, that was a bit of a stinger. At first it was just my teeth. They would tap along to the music whenever I played. But they were too loud. Way too loud. My own teeth were ruining something beautiful, downright pulchritudinous, if you pardon my expression. So I removed them. It was fine because most nutrients can be consumed in liquid form.

Next came my hands. Well, my fingers to be exact. Whenever I thought of a new song with a brand new rhythm with a brand new track, my fingers would tap along and mimic the excitement in my head. It became unbearable. I was listening more to my fingers than the actual music. So, naturally, I had to cut them off.

Though for whatever reason, my fingerless hands still kept tapping the more I tried listening to silent music in my head. It probably had something to do with the nerves all being connected. I’m not sure. The details never really bothered me. What bothered me was the noise. As you can imagine, I ended up settling on having my arms removed up to the elbow to discourage any tapping along to the silent music playing in my head.

As you have probably already surmised, my feet wanted to join the party of silent music festival playing in the house. Each foot finding a different beat to be ebullient about. I noticed the continuing habit of my body, especially my limbs, betraying me. I was forced to amputate my feet. In fact, I preemptively went ahead and just had them cut up to the knee for good measure. 

But before you go and get the notion that I became some sort of Dalton Trumbo character, just know that it wasn’t because of any sort of war or unknown skirmish that caused me to lose my limbs. I’m not some anti-war parable. Actually, I don’t recall ever being in a single fight my entire life. I’m just not that sort of person. I detest confrontation.

The silence is all that really matters. As long as I can’t hear the music, then I’m good. As long as I can’t hear anything disturbing that music, then I’m perfect. 

I wouldn’t say that it takes great talent to play the instruments as I’ve designed them. There’s not a huge learning curve to the idea of playing silently. To some it might even look like I’m not even playing. But that’s the untrained eye, or ear, I should say, unable to grasp the coloratura of my style.

Being understood and appreciated is overrated. Especially for what I’m trying to accomplish. 

It might seem obscure as to what exactly it is that I want to accomplish with silent music. I understand that now. But I don’t really have too much time to break into song and dance routines to explain myself. And if I did, then that’d probably defeat the purchase of performing silently.

I hear too much. It’s a bit of a curse. Or at least that's how I’ve come to interpret it. I don’t like the noise coming from all around.

The doorbell rings every so often. It keeps ringing. Whenever I have visitors. Rarely, but still occasional. For whatever reason, I guess nostalgia, I didn’t get rid of that particular noise.

Whenever I answer, I hear the sun, and it’s loud. The faces that greet me go from courteous to morbidly intrigued to disturbed by my appearance. I can see it in their own music. The music they make with their faces. The notes they play to convey what they don’t want to say. What’s not polite. Thoughts they couldn’t fathom telling in front of company. Strange. Strange. Stranger company.

Though my front door interactions with delivery drivers, neighbors, family, what little friends I have left, tend to be short, and almost entirely one-sided. I couldn’t help myself, it’s become a bit of a habit, like getting one tattoo that leads to another and another and another. Well, I went ahead and cut out my tongue. 

It made sense at the time. It always does.