Will Hicock Low: Deafening the Swallows’ Twitter, Came a Thrill of Trumpets (1885)

" … a halfway decent conversation with myself."

As one newly introduced to iAlogue, the fine art of solo dialogue or talking to myself, I can report that it's a challenge, given all the foreground noise. If I didn't know better—and I might not know better—I'd insist there's a vast and insidious conspiracy against anyone even attempting to hear themself think, just as if they considered that sort of thing dangerous and to be dissuaded at every turn. Significantly, during this sacred season, the competition expands beyond all reason. Wherever I go, holiday music follows or greets me as I enter. I recognize that It's Looking Like A Lot Like Christmas without having that recognition blasted into what's left of my consciousness every time I enter a store. I know why I cannot remember what I came into the store to purchase because my inboard navigation system was short-circuited by the Musac® there.

Even when it's not the sacred season, the competition seems staggering. Between unnecessarily noisy appliances and cross-examining spouses, it's not a wonder why I often throw my hands up. I cannot manage much while trying to carry on side conversations. I need some focus. I need to hear what that small, still voice inside suggests. Otherwise, I'm stuck with some recipe too intricate to translate or losing my place in the grand preparation sequence. There's a surprising amount of discovery in even attempting to cook broccoli, for instance. Get distracted, and it will never finish cooking and stay hard and wooden. Intuition employs that small, still voice so quickly squelched by excess noise.

While it's possible to meditate in a hurricane, it's generally frowned upon. It's permissible perhaps once or twice in a lifetime, not twice daily or daily. Some days, though, it seems impossible to carve out a quiet corner to contemplate a little nothingness. Our days fill with stuff to the point of crowding out stuff's essential counterpart, the space without which all stuff becomes meaningless. The house with televisions blaring from morning until after bedtime, the machine regulating the inhabitant's lives such that it turns itself on and off, smothers their potential. When one finds that they've dedicated most of their mind to remembering the broadcast schedule so they won't miss "their shows," something's just got to go. What usually leaves turns out to be a genteel reasoning, the considering that might produce great works of art but instead ends up with an impressive collection of hilarious fart jokes.

I often try to imagine this world when it was only lit by fire before full-color flat screens replaced windows, and channel changers did away with the need to go out of doors. Before we needed to maintain our entertainment with a similar imperative as we once kept our larder. Before motorcycles and their engines were even imagined. When neighborhood sounds were rarely deafening. It takes some special something now when our environment has grown so damned hostile to thinking, so detrimental to even attempting to speak with yourself, to maintain that relationship with my first partner. Without a well-nourished I, we should not be surprised if we struggle to maintain relationships, if potential us-s seem more like thems, if 'we' hardly seems even to include 'me' anymore.

I rise obscenely early to ensure I get my daily dose of i time. I think of myself as best represented by a lowercase 'i ' because my internal existence seems tiny. Tiny yet significant, too easily smothered, too conveniently covered up in favor of more flashing distractions. My possessions possess me first; they draw my attention and can hold it. I work overlooking The Center Of The Universe as first an observer. I fill my well in sweet isolation from this world. While The Muse sleeps, I enquire and conspire with myself. This world grows increasingly hostile to anyone aspiring to think for themself. Why even bother when it seems as though I can probably buy better produced by somebody else, an actual creator? The consumer consumes himself first before attempting to fill the resulting void with purchases. Me? I'm just trying to carry on a halfway decent conversation with myself.

©2023 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #iAlogue , #PureSchmaltz