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The Wall of Silence The Spiritual Traveler
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 1.
I have felt a chill that starts on the back of my neck and travels down
my spine. I have heard myself panting as from a sudden
exertion. I have awoken to find my pillow wet from
tears. I have dreamed of my body shrunken with
age. I have stood dumb as friends made their apologies,
extended their hands, wished me well, and disappeared from my
life. I have watched all dwindle around me.
Finally, I realized that I am alone, and that realization has freed
me. I am alone, therefore I am free to say what I
like. I am alone, therefore no one will
listen. No one will be offended. I will not be
ashamed. The cosmos will be undisturbed. Society
will be indifferent. Everything will be as
before. I will have committed no crime. I will
owe no one a debt. I will suffer no
recrimination.
I can take the world by the scruff of the neck and shake
it. I can hang a sign round my neck bearing the word
APOSTATE and smile at the people as they walk by. I can
laugh in the faces of my superiors. I can look with pity
into the eyes of my peers. Nothing I do will
matter. The wall will still be there. My words
cannot efface it. My will cannot demolish it. My
existence cannot negate it.
2.
It is a wall of feelings nursed in solitude, a wall of infinite
resistance and ancient resolve. It appears transparent, yet
it is opaque. It seems porous, yet it is impenetrable: a
wall of judgement, a wall of rectitude.
It is the indifference that precludes a torrid debate. It is
disdain for a confession of weakness. It is hostility to a
loss of control. It is the forced smile in the face of a
breach of etiquette. It is fear of an expression of
love.
It is the wall of silence, ever erect, ever watchful: a thousand eyes
peeping into a single hole, a thousand buttocks poised over a single
bucket, a thousand rifles pointed at a single head, a thousand cocks
eyeing a single cunt.
It is no. It is no, no, no. It is "No, it is not
allowed. No, you are different. No, I do not love
you any more. No, you must continually seek our
approval. No, we do not approve. No, no,
no."
It is "No, we do not care. We do not care about
you. We care about other things, of course, but we have no
time to care. It is not our business to care. You
do not have the right to expect us to care. No, life is not
fair. It is not fair, and it is not fair of you to ask it to
be fair. Our not caring is fairer than your
caring. Your caring is a burden to yourself. We
do not seek it to share. It is not like a pie that you hand
out, and expect of people that they take a slice. It is
merely a purchase you have made at a bad price."
3.
"You seem not to understand. What is it that is so hard to
understand? The world is what it is. Is that so
hard to understand?"
"Let me draw you a picture. Here is the wall. It
is impenetrable and long. It is our
protection. Without it we fall."
"And with each fall, recovery becomes more difficult, less
complete. With each fall, you will only be more
broken. With each hour indoors, you will only become more
pale. With each moment of isolation, you will only become
more mute. With each minute our numbers
grow. With each hour, we become more deaf to your
cries. With each day we become more callous."
The wall grows higher and higher. With each week the ivy
spreads. With each month the vines wrap themselves around
each brick in a hammerlock. With each year processions move
about the wall. Priests burn censers and intone
hymns. Marshals make strident speeches. Mayors
run for re-election. Pedagogues write tomes for immediate
burial. Wardens compose sonnets to their
prisoners. Prisoners nurse their insanity like babies
sucking at their bottles.
The wall grows beyond all bounds, out of sight, out of
mind. Already it grows heavy with the weight of the
world. It grows solid with waste. It grows sick
with poverty and affluence. It has found loose and fertile
soil. It has sunk its roots deep as an ancient
tree. Its tentacles massage gently. Like a
beacon, it sends forth a vibration, a message, a warning, with a voice
as sharp as thunder, as soft as a whisper in the ear.
4.
Is there no one else who can hear? Is there no one else who
hears the dull pain, the giant sucking sound, the noise of exhaustion,
the squeal of paranoia, the cracking and breaking of healthy limbs, the
whining of chain saws, the enormous rushing sound of burning forests
advancing like a mighty wind, the insistent patter of rain, the
hurrying of floodwaters, the creeping sound of fear before an uttered
word?
Is there no one who sees the hesitant gesture of a woman concealing her
sex, the frantic motion of a woman denying her feelings, the restless
hands smoothing her skirts, the infinitesimal signs of control flowing
in waves over her face? Is there no one else who sees the
understanding smile, the gleam of sexuality in her eyes, the red lips
pouting as for a kiss and then gently forming the word no?
Is there no one who hears the whispered no, the patient no, the calmly
stated no, the reiterated no, the shouted no, the no of panic, the no
drawn in a circle like a wagon train as a last means of defense, the no
hurled from the battlements, the no that engulfs every sense with a
smothering finality, the no that calmly walks away from the scene of an
accident, the no whose repose is undisturbed, the serene no, the lordly
no, the coquettish no that invites another request, which will be
answered by no?
Is there no one else who wishes to unmask its fragility, to expose its
humanity, to lay bare the intricate musculature of its heart, to touch
it gently, to see it tremble in anticipation like a flower before the
wind? Is there no one else whose thoughts of love have
turned to violence in the face of such impassivity?
5.
It has been creeping up on me for a long time now: the awareness of
something palpable, a thickness in the air, a hurdle that cannot be
leaped, a bone lodged in our throat, a stick up our ass, a blade poised
to cut off our dick as we sleep. I have seen it directly
before me: a door barred to our prayers, a blank look, a vacant eye, a
grimace, a smile of condescension.
I have seen it gazing at me in my dreams. I have sat and
watched its eyes glow like red cinders. I have felt my mind
awaken screaming like a child in the night with the sudden awareness of
its presence. I have seen my vision of the future sail like
a bullet in slow motion through the air and explode on impact with its
serene surface. I have felt my sex stretched taut like a
fiber pulled by two pairs of iron fingers. I have trailed it
like a wooden puppet up endless columns of stairs, its skirts billowing
like the sails of a schooner, its heels clicking like a
commandant's. I have imagined its voice low in its throat,
its sobs choked, its back arched, its thrusts rhythmical. I
have seen its hesitancy disguise its assertiveness and its
assertiveness mask its weakness. I have heard it deny all to
me repeatedly, yet its denials were to me the most patent of
affirmations.
6.
My God, when I have lain at the Wall, when I have sucked the ground
before it, when I have lapped at the dew on its surface, when I have
prayed to it, made obeisance to it, placed its image in the center of
my contemplations, when I have seen it attain godlike proportions in my
dreams, when I have heard its voice speak in strange tongues and utter
prophecies, maybe then I will be convinced, maybe then I will take it
for a reality, maybe then I will show it due respect.
My God, I hope, I pray that I make my peace with the Wall. I
do not believe in divine intercession, but I pray to something,
somewhere: "Make it easy for me. Do not put me through
protracted labor. Remove the spectacle of endless confession
from my mind. Allow me to see it without
flinching. Allow me to look up its skirt without
desire. Allow me to walk down these corridors without
half-hoping, half-dreading that I will run into the
Wall. Allow me to observe it without seeking to hurl myself
against its face in a frenzy of self-annihilation. Allow me
a moment of respite, at least, I beg of you."
My God, if only I could smile in its face. If only I could
smile in answer to its refusal. If only I could be that sure
of myself, then the Wall would not matter. It would be of no
consequence. It would be there, but irrelevant: a trifle, an
absurdity. Its vanity would be ludicrous. Its
officiousness would no longer offend. Its carefully
constructed image would be as transparent as glass. Its
sexuality would no longer mock me. Maybe I would even become
used to it. Maybe then I would sigh and say, "Oh yes, the
Wall. I know it well. What of it?" as if it were nothing to
me any more.
7.
It is my own desire that is to blame. It is my own
longing. If only I could cut off that desire with a knife,
if it could be surgically removed, if it could be extracted from my
mouth like an abscessed tooth, if it could be dug out like an enlarged
prostate, if it could be lanced like a boil, if it could be flushed out
like a rodent from its burrow, if I could hold it by the tail and hear
its noxious squeals roll like a soothing wave over my mind, I would be
content.
Often I have thought: "If I could turn the Wall inside out like a
jacket, what remarkable things might I find? Jewels to
startle aged kings, bells fitted round the necks of savage beasts,
whirlwinds of orchestrated sound, documents of liberation, voluminous
lists of the rights of man, fields of flowers bathed in sunlight, their
petals uplifted, a letter from a loved one, its ink smudged by a tear,
a whispered word, a sigh, a sparkle in the eye, the intimacy of a
single glance from a stranger: there would be no end of
treasures."
"A woman covered only by the masses of her own dark hair, her head
suddenly lifted, its strands thrown back, her body revealed like a
strange fruit stripped of its skin, the vulva exposed to the touch, its
lips parted expectantly, her love offered unreservedly, without thought
of protection, with no need for the Wall's security: there would be no
end of treasures."
8.
Often I have thought: "If I were to embrace the Wall, if I were to love
it wholeheartedly, if I were to wear a piece of it around my neck like
an amulet, if I made its thoughts my own, if I made it my protection,
my salvation, would I not then walk the world strengthened by a
powerful intimacy? Would I not then become
emboldened? Would I not then presume to make my dreams a
reality? Would I not then learn to ask and expect a
response? Would I not then cease to be a
dreamer? Would I not then be a doer, an organizer, a priest,
a politician?"
"Would not women then flock to me? Would they not enfold me
with their arms? Would they not put their bodies close, as
if warming themselves before a crackling fire? Would they
not be solicitous, inquiring as to my desires, their pouted lips
whispering affirmations? Is not the Wall the object of their
desire? Is it not their true lover, their
idol? Having sought to emancipate themselves, having
demanded the right to make their own choices on their own terms, do
they not unerringly choose the Wall, and having made the choice, do so
again and again?"
9.
Finally, in the wake of these thoughts, I had a dream. The
Wall was a vast undertaking. A line of masons extended
across the entire city: mortar slapped on bricks in a kind of cadence,
surfaces pressed together, adhesive oozing between the spaces, gloved
hands working relentlessly, the excess caught up by trowels and flicked
back into buckets. The Wall was rising swiftly, dividing the
city. I saw a pair of gloved hands. I lifted them
to my face. I felt the stiff cotton between my
fingers. I grasped the handle of the trowel and returned to
my task. I was helping to build the Wall with my own
hands. I was erecting it with my own
intentions. I was building it with my own
feelings.
Then I awoke, and a flood of memories rushed over me. I
remembered my voice raised in anger. I heard the click of a
receiver followed by a vacant tone. I saw an apartment being
vacated. I walked through a deserted hallway. I
made a pilgrimage to a mausoleum. I gazed at a picture in a
cracked frame. I walked back by the same path I had
come. I paced in my room, the minutes ticking off tight in
my mind. I knew that the blame was mine. I alone
was responsible.
10.
Like a photojournalist surveying the landscape of a dying city, I
stopped to contemplate the broken cityscape of my own
mind. Everywhere I saw violence: violence cloaked as
gentleness, as awkwardness, as naiveté, violence that was soft and
pliable, the violence of cowardice, of being unable to remember, of
failing to learn from past experience, of repeating the same mistakes
over and over again, the violence of despair, of hopelessness, of
melancholy and skepticism, of doubting one's own abilities, of always
asking other people's advice, the violence of solitude, of guilt, of
self-reproach.
Everywhere I noted the symmetry, consistency, regularity, and
uniformity of that violence: the uniformity of thought, of habit, of
desire dug so deep into the soul that it is a part of it, the
uniformity of a record playing over and over in the same groove, of a
cow path become a trail, a trail become a road, a road become a
superhighway, an inclination become a tendency, a tendency become an
affectation, an affectation become an addiction, and an addiction
become a disease of the mind.
Everywhere I heard the echoes of empty words, whose very vacancy bred
that uniformity: words like celibacy, fidelity, spirituality, and human
perfectibility, words that magnified the judgment of others because
they were alive with self-judgment, words that had borne pain for so
long that in order to erase the memory of pain they had built a city of
pain, words that strove for self-knowledge, self-control, and
self-mastery with such exactitude that the essence of one's being was
buried under an avalanche of minutiae, words that recorded every
flutter and tick of somatic impressions, emotions, and thoughts, until
the information itself became an intolerable burden, until its
intelligence reports contradicted one other, placing the entire
organization at risk, and rendering its very purpose ludicrous.
11.
All my life I viewed the Wall from a distance. I thought of
it as something apart from myself. I lived comfortably with
the knowledge of its existence. I studied it, wrote
dissertations on it, discussed it in academic forums, made it the
subject of erudite discourse and elegant research. But I had
only seen its surface. I had never probed its inner
mechanism. I had never speculated on its precise
logic. I had never drawn near it, never touched it, never
heard the muffled sound of its heartbeat, never felt its breath, never
smelt the odor of its body, never touched it in the
darkness.
All the while, I was rigging and outfitting my life like a ship being
readied for a voyage. All the while, through all of my
preparations, I dreamed that I would travel on open seas. I
believed that, once freed from my moorings, I would ply the waves
unencumbered, unhindered. I never imagined that I would sail
on an ocean of stone. I did not foresee that my keel would
scrape furrows into the hard soil like a plow. I did not
conceive that on my maiden voyage, my body would be dragged like a
carcass, bruised and bleeding, from one end of the continent to the
other. But most of all, I did not see that every stone in my
boot, every sliver in my heel, each jagged piece of flint cutting into
my sole was the shard, the remnant, of my own efforts, of my own will,
of my own design and my own imagination.
12.
In my own imagination, I ran screaming down the halls like a lovesick
child, thick, petulant tears streaming down my cheeks. In my
own imagination, I sat in the twilight of a lonely bar, writing a poem
on a wrinkled paper bag. In my own imagination, I was
speeding down a two-lane road, pressed against the wheel, shielded by
shatter-proof glass, safe in my dangerousness, feeling myself squeezed
dry as a lemon, the juice all gone out, leaving only the bitterness of
the rind.
In my own imagination, joy was an elixir I measured out in spoonfuls,
taken after sadness, of which I made a meal. In my own
imagination, a simple conversation was a roller-coaster ride that
veered between heights and depths, stalls and
accelerations. In my own imagination, my soul was a
television set that beamed a sickly, luminescent self-image into the
four-walled, empty chamber of my heart.
In my own imagination, I saw a woman, back turned to me, shoulders
covered by the masses of her own dark hair. Suddenly, she
turned round, and I saw that her face was wet with
tears. And when she looked up at me with my own eyes, I saw
that her sorrow was my sorrow, that her face was my face, that I had
caused her sorrow and that she had caused mine, that the sorrow of the
world was our sorrow, that the face of the world was wet with our
tears, and that our tears filled the oceans and the rivers, and came
down in rain and watered the world with sorrow.
And the thing I regretted most was that I could not tell her of my
sorrow. The Wall stood between us, choking my words,
rendering her gaze impenetrable, our bodies immobile. I
walked away without speaking, as if silence could do justice to an
ocean of feeling, as if cowardice could possibly be mistaken for
strength, as if time would erase all memory, as if life were unreality,
a fiction, a story that could easily be rewritten.
And now I walk in the shadow of the Wall, whose escarpment engulfs me
like the towering cliffs of a canyon. And my own muteness
cries out to me like a madman whose screams can be heard high above the
wind. And my muteness mingles with the muteness of others,
and my silence with theirs, and my screams with theirs. And
I feel myself drowning in the silence of those screams, and I know it
as a silence that encircles and enfolds us all. |
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Date Submitted:
2001-03-07 00:00:00 |
Copyright Information:
Copyright © The Spiritual Traveler, 2001 |
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