Arms Length (download)

It was after I got to Boston that I went into the anechoic chamber at Harvard University…in that silent room, I heard two sounds, one high and one low. Afterward I asked the engineer in charge why, if the room was so silent, I had heard two sounds. He said, “Describe them.” I did. He said, “The high one was your nervous system in operation. The low one was your blood in circulation.” - John Cage

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I can think back on several instances where God, or the Universe, or whatever higher power you subscribe to, asked me to be quiet.  Some were matters of common-sense, like funerals and wedding ceremonies. Others were matter of pure intuition and/or discernment, such as the road trip across California where Joseph told me about his first marriage, or when I was in a bar in Ensenada and the band played a Spanish-language version of Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” and it was so haunting and real that I had to stop breathing for a little bit.

(please, we beg of you: put down the things you’ve picked up so far today, and close everything that opens, and listen)

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Those moments where we listen, where we take everything that makes us blink and curse and cough and set it to the side, are the moments where we’re going to hear the voice of the Father, calling us to something deeper.  We can see our future, see the lines of purpose in our lives, when we yield to the voice inside of us, whispering, pleading, that we pay attention.

“Arms Length” is a snapshot of one of those moments.  There is a barn burning in the foreground of this piece, but it’s not important why; what is important is that the Narrator has found a subtle truth in the quiet and stillness of something that should not be so quiet and still.  As he stands motionless next to the woman he is falling in love with, watching the wood of the barn crumple and its ashes spin into the October air, he is struck with something that stabs at him: the simple fact that his refusal to embrace the idea of falling in love may be what keeps him from finding peace.

I wanted the song to be little, compact; I wanted it to be gentle, but to contain the impact of someone discovering something important about themselves in the space between.  I don’t know if it would ever work as something finished, something complete and polished and whole.  To me, it sounds like it should always be rough, with tape-hiss licking at the edges and the melody trailing off at the end.

***

Nervously we stood in the field and shivered silently
And watched the barn burn down
And didn’t dare to make a sound

The air was thick and slapped our skin and you smiled at me
The smoke just felt like cotton gauze
We watch the little shapes it draws

And arms crossed and shaking, I hummed to myself and it hit me:

If you keep me at arms length
And I keep you at arms length
We might never be
Anything but history

We don’t stand alone for long ‘cause everyone would see
We don’t even let our fingers touch
And we don’t even say that much

And you’re a ghost that’s running through my life with both of your eyes closed
You don’t know the kind of dents you’ll leave
In the spent parts of my memory

***

It should go without saying, at least for those who know me, that I am not always good at being quiet.  It boils down to the fact that I hate silence; in fact, I don’t think there’s ever been a period of prolonged silence that I haven’t, immediately thereafter, labeled “awkward”.  (This is immaturity in its plainest form.)

Over the course of the next week, let’s search for the moments around us that demand complete and utter silence.  In fact, let’s hunt them out, because what we’ll really be seeking out is inspiration; a chance for the deepest parts of God to speak and communicate with the deepest parts of us.