It’s hard to argue with silence. It’s what takes over in elevators and locker rooms when we have nothing to say. It’s where I go if I can’t find what I’m looking for, if nothing comes out when I turn the handle.
The house is dark when I wake and I like to keep it that way. You can pick up the small sounds, make your own theater.
Today, I opened the laptop to a field of white, and had to close it, sink into the transition of light, confer with silence, then return.
Carlos Castaneda’s character Don Juan talks about the hunter, how he must have infinite patience to wait.
I’ve likened writers to spiders, how we hide in the rafters, preying on the unsuspecting, covering them with spit. (The analogy has legs if you want to carry it further.)