strange radiation: the pool of radiance archive
Adventures with an unreliable narrator.
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Feb 12 03: the rest
Um. Hi, my name’s Andrew? And I’m, um…I’m addicted to my iPod.
I didn’t really realize how much I had come to rely on it until tonight. I went to the evening swim practice, because I skipped the morning one. (Okay, go ahead. Everybody say it together: “…Because you were up too late the night before.” Whatever.) But as I dashed out of the apartment to get to practice, I…I…I left the iPod on my desk! I had to walk eight whole blocks without it! And then another eight blocks coming home! I felt bereft. My hands kept reaching for it in its usual spot on my belt, but it wasn’t there. And this cig-junkie’s craving gave me pause.
How concerned should we be by our habit of screening out the sounds of the world around us with music? It’s a perfect example of the put-yourself-anywhere-but-where-you-are tendency that makes the Zen masters so crazy. On the other hand, Zen wasn’t born in Manhattan. I wouldn’t be wearing it if I were walking through a forest, or someplace where the ambient noises were less abrasive than taxi horns and the schluss of the M11 bus driving through the dregs of last night’s snow. I figure as long as I am sufficiently present not to get hit by a cab, I can shake my groove thing all the way down the sidewalk if I so choose. I share this island with 1.5 million other Manhattanites, and many of them are loud. Any opportunity to create a sense of solitude—or at least a sense of personal space—is tempting.
Still, I know I used to be able to walk home from the pool without music. I know I used to enjoy just taking in the city around me, and that included the sounds: conversation in dozens of languages, laughter, machinery, scraps of music from every continent. I guess the real question is: do I lose more than I gain?