Noises of Spring

Spring arrives finally with the birds chattering and competing in mating calls, singing their presence.  The wind blows though branches a little louder as the buds swell and early flowers appear on the maples.  A few insects begin to explore, adding the persistent hum of little wings.  And of course the streams are filled and water soothingly provides background in lapping waves, showers and storms, bubbling brooks.

That’s the natural picture.  Here in the metropolitan suburbs that is less noticed than the noise of cleanup and construction, as the crews pile out of the houses where they have been refinishing kitchens and sprucing up living rooms.  Roofs need to be repaired or redone entirely, a three day racket of crowbars, hammers, and fierce language, much of it in Spanish.  Yards are now ripe for loud fertilization, followed by the roar of motors on mowers that have reached the size of semi-trailers, and the whine of blowers that could defeat the North wind himself.  Left over storm damage necessitates the constant attention of chain saws.  When there are peaceful moments, somebody has decided to sand their boat, or did their garden with a gas tiller.  If the hush gets to great, the general consensus seems to be that what is desperately needed is loud music _ opera, rock, whatever _ blasted into the yard while the barbeque grills are prepared.

Even in the few blessed hours when such is not occurring _ which are rare because the yard crews now arrive at seven or before and don’t finish until nightfall, and at least one person is always home to provide some sort of noise, even if it is just yelling at the screaming kids _ other aural intrusions from civilization are all around.  We are under one of the flight paths for the New York airports, so certain days there is a huge jet overhead every few minutes, some of them shaking the house with the roar of old engines.  Here on the North Shore, helicopters stream up and down the coast, into the nearby hospital or ferrying the rich from Manhattan to the Hampton’s playgrounds.  And there is always some wealthy hobbyist on the weekends flying his private plane low over the scene, presumably taking  charming photos while disturbing everyone else.

It’s a price we pay, I guess, for our lifestyles.  They used to claim that the suburbs were quieter than the city, but having tried both recently I have to think the decibel level can get worse here, where there is almost no regulation and hardly and rules or civility.  Not that the countryside is really any better, I suppose.  No, all we can do is accept it and try to build a cone of silence or sound to drown everything else in a constant war of sound.

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There are three ways to deal with the sounds that can distract me:  concentration, acceptance, or isolation.  Each has its virtues and faults, and work some times and not others.  Everyone has to use them these days because silence is absent from the land.

Concentration allows me to get so involved in whatever I am doing that I simply ignore everything around me, including the sounds.  This works well when I am at work or doing some major project, or even when I am simply engrossed in what I am doing _ reading a book, eating dinner, watching the internet.  The disadvantage, of course, is precisely that I am unaware of what is going on and may be punished by something in the environment that I should have noticed.

Acceptance is much advised by; various spiritual disciplines. Don’t fight the noise, accept it as part of all, make its cacophony part of your own energy, use it as a lever to higher and wider consciousness.  The roar of a jet, the whine of the chain saw, are just elements of the tapestry of experience and properly understood and internalized, they add to rather than detract from the experience.  I can seem to do that once in a while, but I confess I am no saint, and a good deal of the time I curse the rattle of the low-flying helicopter or the atonal horn melodies of two or three blowers competing with one another.

The normal option, for just about everyone, seems to be isolation.  That involves, for example, sound proof windows which are never opened.  When I was young, a rite of the season was to take off the storm windows and put on the screens, the throw open the house to outside ventilation.  No more.  One clattering lawn mower at seven in the morning is enough to end that old tradition.  Instead, when the quiet sanctuary of the home is left behind, people carry their isolation bubbles with them.  This usually takes the form of earphones running telephones, computers, or music as a loud feed overcoming all outside distraction.  Of course, it does make it more likely that I will simply walk in front of a garbage truck as I hum along with some lively tune.

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Po’ Ears

 

I

Hear all nature with its noise -

Lovely noise!

What a universe enchanted its harmony deploys!

How it lingers, lingers, lingers,

All around from dawn to night!

While the children point their fingers

At the constant birdcall singers

With an innocent delight;

Keeping time, time, time,

In a sort of mystic rhyme,

To the sweet encapsulation that their harmony enjoys

From the noise, noise, noise, noise,

Noise, noise, noise,

From the rustling and the trilling of the noise.

II

Hear the happy neighbor noise – back yard

Happy noise!

What a mix of pleasant simple restful joys

In the balmy air of night

Full of family delight!-

From the wind chimes gentle notes,

Drift all in tune,

What surprising music floats

Cause a listener to smile, as one dotes 

On the moon!

And the children with their toys,

What a blend of harmony arise from girls and boys!

So much poise!

It employs!

Of the Future! – endless in delight

While the parents drink Rob Roys

Fill the air with chatter  about nothing much the matter

Adding noise, noise, noise-

Adding noise, noise, noise, noise,

Noise, noise, noise,

To the ringing and the singing  flow of noise!

III

Hear the loud power noise

noxious noise!

What a tale of hubris, now, their screaming roar annoys!

Although vanished in the night

By dawn they start to fight!

Horrific mufflers leak

They can only shriek, shriek,

Out of tune.

In a wretched mass destruction of the peace,

In a mad and frantic scramble of the peace,

Echoes increase, increase, increase,

Huge vibrations never cease

And a resolute endeavor

Now – now to do, or never,

Until the rising of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the noise, noise, noise!

What a waste of wealth employs             

Grand desire!

How they snort and clash and roar!

What a horror they outpour

In quiet neighborhoods rise higher!

Yet the ear, it fully knows,

With the smashing,

And the crashing,

While the whining ebbs and flows;

Yet the ear discerns no joys

In the mowers,

And the blowers,

Concentration all destroyed,

By the steaming and the screaming in the volume of the noise -

Of the noise -

Of the noise, noise, noise, noise,

Noise, noise, noise -

In the ripping and the whipping of the noise!

IV

Hear the rolling of the noise -

Background noise!         

What a world of human beings their constant hum deploys!

Even in the depth of night,

How we hear it in its might

An incessant menace in its drone!

For every sound that floats

From the rust in engine’s throats

Is a groan.

And the people – ah, the people -

Both well-off and all unequal,

All alone,

And who working, working, working,

Cause that muffled monotone,

Feel so righteous in not shirking

Social duty all their own -

They are neither man nor woman -

They are neither brute nor human-

They are Tools: -

And their job they cannot shirk,               

As they work, work, work,

Work

Creating lots of noise!

And their boss always enjoys

Lots of necessary noise!

And he pays them, and destroys,

Using time, time, time,

In a sort of mystic rhyme,

To the necessary noise: -

All that noise:

Using time, time, time,

In a sort of mystic rhyme,

To the throbbing of the noise –

Of the noise, noise, noise: -

To the sobbing of the noise: -

Keeping time, time, time,

Filled with poise, poise, poise,

In a happy mystic rhyme,

To the working out the noise -

All that noise, noise, noise -

To the working out the noise -

All that noise, noise, noise, noise,

Noise, noise, noise,-

All that crashing and that mashing from the noise.

 

-

I always think of you as one of the younger generation, thirty years or so “behind”me. And as such, I know your world has always been filled with sound _ what I call noise _ both as foreground and background, often competing. It was true with my own children.

It is impossible to find “natural quiet” anymore. Oh, there are earplugs and soundproofing and you can construct a room or a personal space that is totally isolated from everything else, with its own aural ambience, whatever you choose. But if you wander out of your little bubble, there are nothing but chaotic intrusions, from distant aircraft, traffic, and sirens, to local saws, mowers, blowers, and no matter where out or in pumped in or pumped up music of some kind. In your house there are always TV’s or music systems or game consoles or internet information or cellphones. If you just sit, somewhere, you will hear something made by people drowning out anything that is not.

It’s a generation divide. My children do not care, and I’m sure you do not either, but it is a loss of what I consider part of the good world. It is a disconnect from our environment and how we are tied together. But you cannot understand, and that is less something for me to be angry at than to pity you for.
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The notion of rights, responsibilities, civility, and of course legal regulation always trails the actual conditions.  Nobody worries about the use of water until the supply or disposal somehow becomes threatened.  In an extremely rapidly moving world, that means that our social interactions are far behind the true environment, and we seem to lurch between disasters and massive annoyances.  Noise may be one of the more minor of those, but it is one of the most pervasive.

Not long ago, a certain amount of silence was expected, even in cities.  One day or another would be reserved for religious quiet; there were certain hours when nothing public was to be done _ bars closed early and markets opened late.  There was a rhythm to the days of the week that reserved the most raucous activity for a weekend .

Oh, there were exceptions, even in the country, at certain times and for certain patterns.  You could always expect to hear an occasional train whistle even in remote country, and in the last century saws mechanical and otherwise would echo through the forest.  But the exceptions became the rule, with distant traffic noise always humming,  jets throbbing overhead, distant sirens wailing.  And with “labor saving devices” all local activity became raucously public.  Mowing, blowing, power washing, trimming trees, moving dirt, painting, building, roofing, even relaxation and play are accompanied by constant and massive decibels.

If its your activity, you don’t care.  But each sound affects everyone else, and someone is always doing something, and it is a 24/7 world so there is no cease.  The old polite rules are shattered.  I suspect sometime in the future there will be some changes _ I am not sure what _ but this is one of those situations, like polluted water, that now seems to be getting so out of hand that even those who admire their own noises are beginning to resent others’.  There are probably, also, coming to be real effects on the general natural environment and public health. 

But for now, all we can do is accept and endure.  It’s not the worst thing.  Right now, that is the true sound of spring.
-


We ran into John and Jan in a nice little bar on level three, one of the high class ones so I knew they had some money.  After a few beers we were exchanging stories, although the background music sometimes got a little loud.

John said, “there, that was what we were trying to do.”

Jan added, “and it worked out pretty well,  financially at least.”  They exchanged glances.  We encouraged them to tell us more.

“Well,” John continued, “A few years ago we had the bright idea to create a complete set of ambience recordings,”

“You know,” interrupted Jan, “like those background white noise generators or sound of waves that people use to get to sleep?” We nodded.

“Our idea was to expand it and customize.  We wanted a set of a real full day _ twenty four hours _ at one location, inside and out, just as if you were living there.  We thought maybe consolidate all the interesting stuff so there would be one new twenty four hour loop for every week of the year.”

“And we wanted it identifiable,” continued Jan.  “So we started with a cabin in the Ozarks _ a nice brook, woods, two acre meadow, lots of nice stuff, and set pretty much so the seasons were each about three months long. “

“And we recorded and edited there for a year, a bit more,” John noted.  “Not just the insects and wind and all that outside stuff, but homey sounds of the fireplace, or the rooms being swept by a whisk broom or a fire crackling on cold evenings. The hardest part, actually, was editing out the unnatural sounds _ like us, or the jet planes overhead _ that we didn’t want.”

“Gee, that sounds really interesting,” my wife replied.  “Did it work out when you sold it?”

“Yeah, actually it was doing pretty well, and we had great plans _ didn’t we, hon?”

“Oh, yeah, “ John took another sip of beer, “we did pretty well on the internet, and we were going to do a bunch of other types of locations, adding video, but of course we never got a chance…”

“Well, on the other hand, it’s why we’re so well off now,” commented Jan.  “When everyone had to move down here we suddenly became the hot item.  We get played everywhere all the time, we license to scientific study teams, people pay us to talk about our experiences.  There seems to be no end to the money.”

“Just think,” finished John, “we spent all that time recording everything as background sound, as something people could play while they slept or relaxed,  a bit of peace in their lives.  And now it’s the centerpiece of what everyone is trying to recover if we can ever get back up there again.”  
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Noise is, I suppose, a minor irritant of modern life.  That it is pervasive and intrusive and adds to our confusion and unhappiness is probably irrelevant since it is a byproduct of so much that we find necessary.  As with many other irritants, the next generations will grow used to it and ignore it and it will not much matter.

The sounds of spring to me are still the babbling brook, the singing redwing blackbird, the breeze rustling the new leaves, maybe even a distant tractor chugging along plowing a field.  I am as out of time as an ancient peasant from a Breughel painting.

In all that there is a lesson.  The world is moving on, and without me, and it is actually doing as well as it ever does.  My solutions to what I perceive as problems are not required, and will be ignored as they probably should be.  And, to be honest, some of my distress at things such as the noise level this moment are probably nothing more than a general peevishness at having become so old and irrelevant.