I have always loved Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning" in many moods. This line is apt for my current week of silence, though, in the poem, I think sound has a doubled meaning.
I am in my third day of this vocal rest, having blown the first day at 3 am when I woke up and told Callie she was a good dog. Oops. She has adjusted well to my silence, coming when I clap, and responding immediately to hand signals. Smart, smart dog. She and my cats have been my only companions these last three days. I had not expected how isolating this experience would be. I took Callie for a walk, and a man stopped his car to remark how pretty she was and ask her breed; of course, I couldn't answer him. It was both awkward and dispiriting to be unable to enjoy this simple interaction.
I am not depressed, oddly, but being alone and being quiet look an awful lot like depression, and I am conscious of keeping that at bay. I am learning a tarantella on the guitar, and such liveliness doesn't jibe well with melancholy. There is also a John Wayne marathon on TV all weekend, so I can happily indulge my guilty pleasure in Wayne films (I hadn't seen Wings of Eagles in years, and they are showing Horse Soldiers, which I have never seen in its entirety). Since I am loath to go to a restaurant and not be able to order my food without writing, I am cooking and eating well. A very cocoon-like existence; not depressing, but I do feel cut off from the rest of the world.
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