Quiet memories.

October 5, Greenfield.

Years ago when I worked in Jacksonville I came to this park to take pictures of a bluegrass concert. It was one of these slow Sunday afternoons of late summer, much like the one when I met Fridman. The music was good, it was one of these easy jobs.
I never thought of it again until we drove in this morning. The memories became finer as I walked out to the pond and saw the trees. Sitting on the grass at the foot of the tall tree there was the sound of the wind in the trees, the leaves falling, and then it died out and there was nothing but my quiet memories and my very loud skin, the roaring of blood in my head, the tinnitus I've had since adolescence and a terrifyingly loud punk-rock concert.
In a cruel irony of nature I am deaf yet full of bottomless noise.
(The circus is full of noise, too, the generator, the music, the crowds, the incessant noise of our lives, but it didn't reach my tree.)