An Eloquent Hush

Yes, it's true, I am a news junkie. In case of a nuclear attack or tsunami, I don't want to be among the last to know. I doubt if information overload is life-threatening, but it isn't covered by my HMO. From now until election night, I'm afraid my ears will have to endure a verbal assault from politicians, pundits, panels and pollsters ... all of which makes me yearn for poetry, its promised transport.

After the sound and fury dies, there is the eloquence of a hush, a signifying gesture, visual arts that speak volumes, the sign language my daughter orchestrates with her fingers in flight and the simple discourse between lover's eyes.

How many restaurants will I never return to because every menu item comes with noise? If the decibel level is too subdued, they insist upon playing music loud enough so we must lipread across the table. Candlelight dinners with conversation are no more.

When we watched a Marx Brothers movie, we saw Groucho overthrow a government with a raised eyebrow and flick of his cigar. After all the fast talk from Chico there was always a segment with Harpo breaking our hearts as if he was communing with the firmament.

One of the hidden aspects of a baseball game is the wordless communication going on between pitcher and catcher. If the camera zoomed in on the manager, we might catch him hitching up his trousers or pulling on his ear sending signals to his players with strategies. 

Antonio Gaudi's vision sings to us through his daring design and architecture. His aesthetic is a choir of mosaics, an astonishing vision that stills our tongues but stirs our wings.

In past centuries among women of a certain class, messages were conveyed in the way they positioned their fans. Carrying the fan in her right hand meant, follow me; in the left hand, we're being watched. Or I love you, her eyes behind the open fan. Of course, with air conditioning and texting, yet another mysterious enchantment is lost.

Van Gogh regarded himself as a musician of paint. We hear the anguish in his painted shoes and the ecstasy of his night sky. His iris still vibrates for me from the Amsterdam museum, thirty-five years ago.

In 1919 Nijinsky danced for the last time. He spun and twirled and fell crashing through a window into the snow. Deemed to be mad, he said he had danced the revolution and his own exile. 

On November 6th we will either be dancing in the streets along with most of Europe or gathering at the border in a massive emigration. No words necessary.