It's rare that I can drive anywhere, for longer than 10-ish minutes without the radio on in the car. Every morning, I listen to NPR, as I do every afternoon. I can't drive in silence. I mean, I can-- but I don't like it.
When I blog, there is music on. Always. Right now, it's The Finches, singing "Leviathans Home!" I've never been able to write without music on in the not-so-background. I don't know if it's fuel or momentum or if it's inhibiting something potentially greater than what I'm producing from taking flight (gee, wouldn't that be nice?) but it's been a part of my creative process for as long as I can remember.
Sleeping is, confusingly, when I require the most noise. The air purifier (which I call "the noisemaker") has to be on-- not because it's helpful for an asthmatic with two shedding dogs and dubious dusting habits to have an air purifier on at night, but because the thrum of the machine is very soothing to me. The ancient window air-conditioning unit, which sounds like a front-end loader starting up, also helps too.
I don't know if it's silence itself that bothers me or my reaction to it that is most troublesome. The thing is-- I don't really even know what my reaction to silence is. I suppose my reaction is to fill it, to negate it, to make it go away, to overpower and control it with... noise. Noise is familiar and comforting and it occupies a place in my mind that might otherwise be filled with unpleasantness.
Not necessarily, but maybe.
That's the thing about the mind-- it sort of does what it wants if you don't provide it with enough distractions. I suppose that's why I talk a lot. I like to joke with Mrs. Apron that, "I talk a lot-- but I don't say very much."
If you've stuck with me this long, I'm sure you'll agree.
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