Wall of Silence

Yesterday, I hit the wall of silence. My phone calls and e-mails went unanswered. I kind of spun out into a web of uncertainty. Was anybody out there? By mid-afternoon, I was hanging by a thread: was silence a judgement, a failure, or a reminder that I am a little pebble in the pond? So, this is my life; waiting for an answer, waiting for a sign, waiting for... (please insert appropriate word here: a man, a train, a reason to believe, Godot, etc.) Nothing, no one, arrived. I was left to my own devices.

It was jam night at Peter Jones, so I mustered up enough energy to lug my guitar to the El. Early evening: dark, cold, the snow fluttering down like stray feathers. Three of us gathered at the space, two guitars and a singer, and we bashed away on a couple of pop classics - 'Stepping Stone,' 'Like a Rolling Stone,' 'Paint it Black.' Nothing new or innovative, (although we did play these old tunes 'our way') but it all just felt so good. There's freedom working in the confines of simple chords and notes. It feels so good it can't be bad. We filled the silence with a joyful noise. Then it was over, we put our guitars back in their black cases, we unplugged the microphones, and ventured back into the cold night. 'I once heard a note, pure and easy.' P. Thownsend. Maybe one note is enough.