Sunday, February 17, 2008

"Sunday Noise"

I nearly had a peaceful sleep. I was only woken by a couple screaming under my window trowing curses to each other about their happy gathering that night. Previous Saturday i heard them too. She crying loudly echoing in the street and he shouting at her.. walking away then running back probably lifting her up from the ground and shouting "Ooh i love you so fucking much! So fucking much". She kept on crying loudly. I could imagine he pulled her body on his back so they could stumble drunk home towards Hangover Sunday.

Luckily i had a quiet Sunday rise. Except for the dream i had where a small dog dove in my rain boots where he started to scratch and bite me. When the memory of the dream faded i put on Mozart's "Konzert C-dur fur Flote Harfe und Orchester" and nothing more.. but the feeling of cold air on my shoulders and watching the sunlight shining trough my window showing a bit of dust on the books i just had cleaned yesterday. It is said that Mozart didn't like flute but listening to this i cant believe that. I was gliding in the almost too-sweet-music. Volume so low i hardly could hear it. But it doesn't need volume. I claim that the louder the music is (or "should" be played) the less its value.

When the piece ended There was the Noise of the day again Cars HonK (and why is it allowed for them to have extra big "exhaust pipes"(hope thats the good word). They are only put there to make noise and to impress.. read annoy others! and its legal! I call them "the Dick Thinkers") planes.. dogs.. running up stairs and down.. slamming doors.. and screaming people.
Today my nerves are bit stronger then yesterday so so far i can stand it. Nearly no headache. Still i remembered a short story of Kafka.

Kafka "Great Noise"

"I sit in my room in the headquarters of the noise of the whole apartment. I hear all the doors slamming; their noise spares me only the steps of the people running between them; I can still hear the oven door banging shut in the kitchen. My father bursts through the door to my room and passes through, his robe trailing; the ashes are being scraped out of the stove in the next room; Valli asks, shouting one word after the other through the foyer, whether Father's hat has been cleaned yet; a hushing sound that aims to be friendly to me raises the screech of a voice in reply. The apartment door is unlatched and makes a grating noise like a scratchy throat, then opens wider with the singing of a woman's voice, and finally closes with a dull manly bang, which is the most inconsiderate sound of all. Father is gone; now the subtler, more diffuse, more hopeless noise begins, led by the voices of the two canaries. I had been thinking about it earlier, and with the canaries it now occurred to me again that I might open the door a tiny crack, slither into the next room like a snake and in that way, on the floor, ask my sisters and their governess for peace and quiet".

How can they understand!? They lost their ability to listen they lost "the eye" for tiny things.

ps. And what a blessing it is you can find so much on the internet. This piece with a niece article comes from 'The New York Times' site and can be found here.