It is only quiet if I don’t listen. In the early morning, just before light
saturates the air around you and distracts you, you can hear the hum. I call it the hum of the universe, but it is
only the sounds of tires on asphalt all around the city — even on the
interstates, which are too far away to see.
There are a few more obvious sounds —the fog horn of a ship heading into
the Bay never far away and sometimes jets
above the fog. There is the
strange, otherworldly whine of the electric busses when they come near and
before they go away and fade back into the hum.
The hum, though, is not intrusive. I hear it only when I want to. I’ve
adjusted to urban quiet.
Though I often sleep through it, I love this time in the
morning. The wind hasn’t come up yet and
no matter the temperature, I am warm enough and can breathe easily. There is a
freshness to the air as if the night cleansed it.
But clutter invades.
Personal clutter. I have a small
apartment and I’m usually working on half a dozen projects at the same
time. Papers are stacked on papers. In the kitchen, a few skillets are out
because there is no place to put them and I’ve gathered several lethargic
orchids. They were beautiful years ago
and I’ve repotted, watered and fed them.
They live, but they do not bloom. I can’t bring myself to toss
them.
There are books everywhere. I’ve sold a few to a local used bookseller.
I plan — the key here is the word “plan” — to box a bunch up and give them to
Friends of the Library for a sale to benefit one of the most important of
public places. There are also a bunch of
books I know I will never read again, but cannot bring myself to part with.
I have a small monkey collection (not real ones) and a not
particularly valuable (except to me) collection of art. There is limited room on my walls, most of
which is taken.
In a storeroom in the garage I have boxes and boxes of
photographs. I’ve taken a fair amount of
them. I’ve been through a large suitcase
full of photographs I have tried to sort and thin out probably two or three dozen
times in the last 30 years. I’ve thrown
away maybe half a dozen. Some of the photographs have been handed down through
the generations. There are few tintypes
among them. Some of them are of people I don’t know. I’ve been bringing them upstairs for a
project I’m working on. Many of them are
stacked here and there.
My older brother likes to warn younger people about what
happens when people grow older. You
know, things to expect. No doubt one of
those warnings must be there is likely to be an increased tendency and perhaps
even a requirement to hoard.
There are not enough files for my so-called financial
records. There is a stack, growing like a wild fungus of medical and medical
insurance papers. There are wills and operating manuals for cameras,
telephones, computers and printers.
There are dozens and dozens of notebooks, little pocket-sized books that
serve as places to capture ideas as well as phone numbers and grocery
lists. Under my desk are plastic
containers filled with drafts of novels and copies of the novels
themselves. More are downstairs. I also have a small magazine collection,
another box of every publication I’ve edited or contributed to, a dozen or so
miniature (read toy) cars and old cameras. There are stationery supplies. Hidden away are drawers with old watches and a
dozen sunglasses, though I never wear sunglasses. Neither the sunglasses nor the watches are antiques. Just old watches and, oh, probably 30 pairs
of reading glasses no longer strong enough for me to use. I also have many pens. Some are fountain
pens, which I love, but never use.
On my desk are notes for and drafts of novellas as well as material
for one web site and two blogs. There
are three unpublished novels. It’s so
great to live in a paperless society.
Unfortunately I have only one, small closet. Therefore it is hard to keep clothing from creeping
out of the little space and hanging around doorknobs and over a few boxes of
those books I mentioned.
There is noise clutter too.
Street cleaners, trash trucks, arguments, the neighbors’ television
sets, another neighbor’s Harley and the skateboarders who have taken a liking
to the hill I live on. Still another
neighbor has a dog who barks for at least half an hour every morning at eight.
I suspect it’s when the inhabitants go off to work and leave him alone in the
house. I suspect they don’t know it is
his habit. Once a week a leaf blower adds to the symphony of bad noise and
there is, periodically but lasting a long time, house renovation. Precisely at noon every Tuesday, there is a
very loud horn, followed by an unintelligible voice explaining why, I suspect,
there is a very loud horn blowing.
It’s endless and tiresome.
I didn’t used to like being up at three or four in the morning. It seemed uncivilized; but in the darkness
and the quiet, there is a lovely calm, a pleasant hum. It may be one of the reasons why old people
get up early.
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