To my imaginary readers and non existent followers, I have only this to say. Pardon the absence, and excuse the momentary appearance before I amble off, back to the real world. Much has been happening out there and ironically, all that activity in the real world (Morpheus would disagree as to the notation) has been juxtaposed well with the silence on the blog front. The sound of silence has indeed been resounding. And that is what I am coming to.
A couple of years ago, I met an old man outside a coffee house on McDougal Street opposite the subway station performing his version of the very popular Simon n Garfunkel ballad, Sound of Silence. As we got talking, the man says nonchalantly, tuning his guitar,’Paul Simon, the bastard. Stole my song.’ I weighed the significance of this moment. Was I in on something that might take the rock n roll world by storm, was I in a position to say,’ Wrong answer. Minus ten.’ to a high school kid on a buzzer in a high school quiz, was I the facial expression at which the Washington square pot heads would be laughing at uproariously when they heard the old man recount the tale, or wait, was this Paul Simon, the old bastard himself, indulging in some abstract, resigned personality shit? As confused I may be as to my attributions, as dubious be the ownership; and as many commas I may have used, this still remains the greatest piece of poetry (or satire, as you see it) on the banalities of living. Here’s a snapshot:
“And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence”
In the words of Simon (may have come from the old man too),
‘Civilization inevitably plummets to its demise while being wallowed in the messages of savior it is not yet ready to accept or even recognize. Messages that are, ironically, delivered by mankind’s own musings, taking the form of neon signs’
And the power of words, just black ink on the backdrop of emptiness, is something I continue to stand in awe of. Revolutions have taken birth, governments have had an untimely demise, eras have been chronicled. All in the power of words, my friends.
In that context, old man, may you continue to spawn millions of Simons in the years to come. And in that context, Backstreet Boys, on your upcoming album and fancy tour, Fuck you.
