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What is this Thing Called Living when you can't Stand the Noise Anymore?

Larry Rankin, an experiened writer, enjoys creative writing in all forms, from literary to mainstream.


Read this article because it makes me a bit of money. Write this article because that is the sort of noise I’m supposed to be into. No. Well then, spend a bit of time with your wife. No, that kind of noise is doing nothing for me either at the moment. Stop writing this article. They won’t get it, you know. Simplicity died with Samuel Beckett. Nothing to be done. Baby stirs, and I’m at it. No joy in this noise since the world stopped, but you got to do something. Dead and/or neglected babies will not be tolerated. You can stop everything else, but baby must have a juice, food, a clean diaper, all the shit babies need sans the shit. Play a video game. Why? It’s what you do. I can’t stand the noise. Watch the ball game. It doesn’t matter which one. You are supposed to love that noise. No. All noise, and if Samuel Beckett had been a true master of his craft he should have never written a word, or at least dropped that second “t”. A fleeting memory about how Beckett drove Andre the Giant to school every morning because he couldn’t fit on the bus, a favor owed the big man’s parents. The unlikely couple would talk about cricket. How absurd. I used to love that kind of shit. Noise, and not the good kind. It all hurts or just doesn’t impress. A nap while baby watches The Lorax for the fifteen thousandth time. I love naps. No, too much noise. Too many ways for your brain to ambush you when you’re unconscious. Stare at a wall. Miss Gilman would be proud. But none of those trapped faces seem half as trapped as me. No one gives a shit about yellow wallpaper or hidden meaning. It’s just noise. Recollections of Jeff Foxworthy talking about being too drunk to fish. Vodka in the freezer. Awe, sweet release of alcoholism. One shot, two, then what? That isn’t where I want to be. Just noise. I’ve psyched myself out before I’ve even started. I try to amuse myself. What the hell kind of redneck am I, then? Well, it might be funny to someone.


I know exactly what this is. I’ve been through it before with my brother and father. I know I’m just supposed to keep my head down and act like everything is normal until it is. One would think that when you know exactly what you’re up against, it would be easier. It’s not. Mom, I miss you. You may well be in a better place, but I miss you right here and now. I need that joyful noise.

Some memory about happy, carefree monkeys with removed frontal lobes intrudes. The genesis of the lobotomy. It used to be hard for me to understand that so many of the patients participated willfully.


The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.