Sound Silencing

it would be fair to say that--as a submariner--there is one sense that, far more so than the other seven, defines my perception of the world around me.

blind as a bat; how disarmingly accurate that phrase! sightless beneath the seas, submarines stalk their prey with the same deadly precision the flighted mammal employs. almost as if the whole of one's vessel becomes the hammer, anvil, and stirrup, the vibrations are felt in the gut (stephen would be so proud) as much as the ear... it's not unlike a tool concert, really.

a change in the rumbling of the reduction gears alerts one to a new ordered bell. the altered hum of ventilation fans signals the loss of an electric bus. active sonar whoops and whines the length of the hull, haunting dreams and waking hours. anything unaccustomed is cause for alarm and investigation--especially the slightest errant release to the surrounding environment. to that end, the submariner dons soft-soled shoes--the ubiquitous "sneaker" was never so appropriately worn [i rock a pair of stars-and-bars chuck taylor all-stars, myself]--and when passing through hatches keeps the handle in hand, closing it lightly behind him. rigging for ultra quiet is an actuality that involves the entirety of the crew not engaged in standing a watch going to bed; all unnecessary machinery and communication is secured...

which is why i want to strangle to like silence the thunderous clod sharing the other half of my trailer. i realize i shouldn't complain: i live in a trailer rather than a tent, furnished with a toilet and shower that i clean myself (to say nothing of the benefits of not needing to walk outside make water). these are luxuries in theatre, and i am indeed thankful.

but! i swear... this oafish brute is physically unable to gauge appropriate force for anything. in the midnight hours he launches himself bodily into his water closet; would then that we had to wee out of doors! a small price it would be. i was convinced of an evening that he'd pulled an emmett l. brown--only without the subsequent brilliance--and brained himself on the bowl. both entry and exit from his half are heralded by the shuddering whole, as if the trailer itself would weep, given more anthropomorphic plumbing.

if his cussed concussions continue, i am in danger of adopting the poor trailer's palsy, and in a shivering fit of rage beating myself a tattoo upon his bloody pate.

the rest would then be silence.

sweet, sweet silence...