CLEARLY LABELED Blog 9B

(What i desperately want to name the) 

 "SOUND OF SILENCE" 

(but something in my psyche prevents me)

               Scattering gravel. Crunching, grinding, scattering gravel. I break. Hard. The sound of flying gravel drowns out the moaning of the ocean for a brief second. The automatic windows squeak unwillingly to a close. Click of the key in the ignition; rattle of the keychain going around my neck; hoodie rustling over my head. I slam the car door, but the sound is insignificant in the greater stillness of the dunes. A few crickets chirp around me, but other than that the sounds are all beach. Beach and forest. "The quiet's amazing," I say under my breath, startled by how edgy my voice sounds in this great, muffled, whispering place. "I wish Brian could hear it."
              Silence is an interesting phenomenon. In this case, it isn't silent at all. It just seems silent. Maybe it is the lack of man-made clatter. Of exploding mortars; of jets and helicopters overhead; of sirens and shouted orders, and boots muted by hard sand or clipping sharp across runway cement. The ocean moans to itself. The breeze croons to itself. The crickets chirp, and the branches of the eucalyptus creak and shiver like rustling grass. Random sharp cracks; high-pitched rubbing branches; silver rustle of leaves. And beyond that, the rolling murmur of the ocean.
                The trees seem to be stooping down to listen to me as my feet crunch over leaves and crack branches. Man-made clatter. My clumsy sounds are the intruders, and their discord carries more clearly over the dunes than the sound of the distant ocean. Moaning ocean; it sounds unhappy. Crickets hush as my feet crash by. Now I'm crunching iceplant; the sound is crisp and juicy—like the first bite of a Granny Smith, but smaller. Ever onward, toward that plaintive ocean. I can almost hear Brian's voice, when it was still the crackling pitch of a teenage boy, "Come on. Get up sleepyhead. Mom's still asleep." Sound of sizzling eggs; of cartoons in the front room. Now his voice is the voice of a man, and mine cracks as the memory forces a sigh into the whispering breeze. I won't hear his voice again for a long, long time. The breeze sounds sympathetic, soft and rustling as it crawls among the dune grass. The eucalyptus creak behind me; and the crickets are chirping merrily again, now that my footsteps are muffled in the sand.
               How different from what Brian must be hearing. I've heard stories of Balad. How it is never quiet. How all you want is a moment of quiet. How the incessant noise is worse than anything—the danger, the loneliness, the heat. All you want is a moment of quiet, or you feel as if you'll go crazy. But it never is quiet. The mortars explode all day and night; the sandstorms sweep through and drown the world in dull and rushing thunder. Loudspeakers blare when the enemy rumble overhead, and the sound of boots slap across the runways, and then even the loudspeakers are drowned out in the roar of their own jets taking off. They thunder like the ocean, but much, much louder.
               Soft, slithering sand falling down the dunes. It's a soft sound in every sense. I would not hear it, if I were not thinking so much about Silence. Brian always talked quietly. He liked quiet things, he always said. They help you think deeper. Funny how he speaks so quietly, yet flies so loud a plane. Louder than the ocean during storm.
               My feet pad across the sand. It has a different tone now. The padding turns to slapping, then splashing. Gentle murmur of the ocean around me; fills the air. I don't sound like an outsider anymore: the waves drown out my feeble dissonance. Drown out the crickets and the breeze and the trees and my noisome thoughts. It sounds like peace. Brian's across this ocean. Someday again, and here I hold my breath so all I can hear is the ocean. Someday again—I'll pretend it's soon—I'll take Brian to hear my dunes. They sound like Silence.