The wind has been blowing hard around the House on Big Hill for almost a week now. I am now finding the sound of the gusts whistling around the roof physically exhausting. I can no longer tell if it is the sound of the wind or my rereading of Straw Dogs, with all its woeful conclusions about the human animal, or the lack of good fortune I have been feeling every time I go to the inbox, that is instilling within me a wearisome depression at present. Or is it just the turning of the year?
I remember a while back that I became aware that the one sound that really made me want to cry was not a sweet, sad sound, nor mournfully melancholic – the way we would like to position ourselves elegantly within that fragile emotional state – it was a road drill exploding into life as I passed close by.
And all I seek in the house is silence… so that I can brew my own noise from within and press it into your hand.
