there are helicopters twice a day overhead. i assume the noise sends a message. every time, a single neuron is diverted into ensuring the blades of fascism recede into the distance. twice now, i have envisioned an alternative, which quickly requires active thought aversion.
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the laughter of children, to me, is nothing like a bell—each exclamation forms birdsong, yet already their calls are enriched beyond avian repetition. one wonders if birds are assigned their song, or if each one chooses its own in a coming of age ceremony. one wonders if birds feel trapped by voice boxes tuned for pattern recognition. one wonders if a bell could ever sing the song of a brain. one wonders if every single brain is a divine object.
silent spring—our exclamations form the song of the summer. silence is a ceasing of motion. noise tells us that we yet live, that we vibrate in unison, in harmony, and all the discords between and beyond.
