Quieting the Machine

On the rare morning when I find myself alone–unfortunate word, that–alone. Not by myself, but to myself, entirely my own. Not lonely, but lone, self-sufficient. On those singular mornings when I find myself, my first order of business is to still all the ambient sounds: the box fan my husband leaves roaring all night so he can sleep, the dinosaur kitchen laptop perpetually growling in case someone needs a Netflix fix any time day or night, a bathroom fan siphoning away someone’s stench, the yawping, morning-frisky dog pack.

I cannot still the traffic or the wind, or, most regrettably, any neighborly lawnmower, the roofers, or a passerby’s radio. But so it goes.

There is no stillness. I know this. It would be cold and dark if there were. But for me there is no need to add to the commotion unnecessarily. Thoughts are busy enough without surplus din, and it is hard for them to uncurl healthily without making space for them.

This thought is not new. This is good. There is too much obsession with the new. It is good to call on old thoughts and keep the acquaintance fertile, like old friendships. We are quick to chase luster, forgetting just how old the earth is from which it must be forged.

Why so poetic this morning? I was recently at a writing conference where I met some new acquaintances who nevertheless felt like old friends. Their ideas, and their writing, and their journeys resonated with me. But I find I can’t really abide the industry of writing, the factory model. I understand that publishing is a business, an industry, but I’m with Adorno on this one. Industrial art is an oxymoron.

I suppose I am not content or cut out to be an entertainer. I find I have no interest in pumping out high drama at high volume. Maybe I will leave that to AI if that’s what the industry wants. Leave the machinic to the machine and its market forces. I am a writer. There, I said it. But not that species, I think. There’s something old needs reclaiming; perhaps that is the work.