Talking

It’s strange and wonderful how sometimes words come, and sometimes not. The most difficult, stressful and terrified moments can trigger a torrent of broadly coherent and essentially relevant sentences; yet for every one of these moments we spend another in twisted silence, willing words to arrive like a late bus we need to catch. So I sat lemon-like last night. And for that I spent all of today in oral exams which required constant improvised dialogue. No problem. But last night I just didn’t know what to say. It’s an interesting feeling, in my case accompanied by regular short intakes of breath, bizarre mini-shrugs and half-completed facial expressions repeated in various combinations until the poor soul trying to decipher my gyrations gets up in frustration to make a cup of tea. But as an inveterate talker (i.e. a teacher), I’m starting to realise the inherent value of shutting up – and let’s face it: at 29, it’s frankly about time. We’re always communicating, and sometimes moments of silence chime together, building to a wonderful moment of understanding. I’ve underestimated it for a long time, believing always that silence meant awkwardness: a lack, an emptiness, a broken connection. But the same balance exists in intimate verbal interaction that regulates everything else as beautiful – I’m listening to Sigur Ros right now, and the gaps are as enchanting as the bits you can hear; as a drama teacher I constantly encouraged kids to pause between lines, to savour and foster audience anticipation; my band’s obsession with creating awesome noise is increasingly tempered by a desire to frame this in silent moments of musical reflection. In other words: shut up Steve.