Residencies are about fleeing the noise. Perhaps my whole life is about fleeing the noise right now. Because I’m over noise.
I’m sick of the American news cycle. Weary of outrage. Embarrassed by our government. Tired of being told I’m not angry enough. Too angry. Or I’m not expressing my upset the right way. Or I’m too upset. Too shrill. Not shrill enough. Too liberal. Or conservative. Or neutral.
Not sharing in the right places. Or clicking on the right things. Making everything about me. Or nothing about me. Pandering to the crowd. Refusing to pander. Not incendiary enough.
Everybody has an opinion. And their opinions are always more right than mine.
Spending six weeks in a Portuguese village (population 894 and withering by the day) was soul-nourishing. I couldn’t watch the news, because I didn’t understand anything anyone said on television. If I wanted to go online, I had to sit in the kitchen next to the router. No internet in my studio.
Nobody in Messejana cared about American politics. They were more concerned over whether I power-walked on the right side of the road. Showed up at the right time for my manicure appointment. Waxed my mustache. Drank their preferred green wine. Redeemed my euro ticket for a proper snack at the pool.
Stateside, I’m still fleeing the noise.
The news will always be a shit-show. People will scream and yell and troll. The thrill of disapproval is the biggest thrill of all, especially if people can crouch behind the electronic hedges of the internet to sling barbs.
Residencies remind me I’m not missing anything by checking out. Noise is useless. It staggers my spirit, weighs on my soul, makes me miserable.
Listening to noise is a choice. Fleeing the noise is also a choice.
I challenge you to flee the noise. For an hour. A day. A few days or more. And tell me how you feel.
I promise, you won’t be the same.
How do you flee the noise?
To read about my residency at Buinho Creative Hub from the beginning, CLICK HERE and read forward.
10 Comments
As you well know, I flee the noise by accompanying Toulouse to the beach, by getting lost in the guitars, or in a book, a story, a gathering. Sure, I’m not unaffected by the national angst, but understand very well that righteous anger is addictive. I try not to go there. Most of the time, I’m successful.
I’m so weary of the anger. Ready to vote my conscience. Constant campaigns are a scourge.
I am so tired of the judgement. Articles written on what color this one wore or how this one stood. Screaming about nothing important. I sit out on my back deck, or go camping with my grandkids, or just pull over to the side of the road and listen to the corn rustle. It doesn’t last long, but sometimes it’s enough.
Listening to corn rustle. I love that.
I spent 24 hours on the Great Blasket Island, I had built up this fascination for years. I truly existed there. It’s funny (coincidental, not really funny) that I have told everyone ‘here’ about the ‘noise’ there. It’s real noise. It’s not silent, yet it feels silent because it’s wind, and animals and ocean. Fire crackles. Someone you love breathing. It wasn’t silent but it was silent compared to anything we hear. It was amazing.
I fear we don’t notice true noise for all the pseudo-noise in our lives. I love this experience, Colleen. Thanks for sharing. Would you go back?
You’re welcome Andra. And I would go back for extended stays in a heart beat. I told them before night fell that I would have a difficult time leaving the next day. And I did.
I would go back without a second’s hesitation Andra. And invite you!
EEE! I need to look it up stat!!
I wish they would do a writer’s retreat.
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