Bandwidth

Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink.

It was a whisper. Or a whimper. A little flutter of a thought, not borne out through the vocal cords, but rather exhaled, warm breath barely escaping the lips.

That whisper, whimper - whatever it was - it left your lips and tumbled toward the ground. I didn’t catch it. I never do. Wonder if I ever will, am ever supposed to, should even try. Wonder if you ever want me to.

I didn’t catch it. So then it’s on to the questions. The inquisitions. The accusations. Wonder if it’s even about that first uncaught line. That’s just the trigger. The yodel that launches that avalanche of questions.

All the questions. None of the answers. Never any of the answers. Wonder if there are ever any answers. Wonder if it’s even about the questions. Do the questions matter? Should I bother to ask? If you have to ask, you really already know. Should already know. Don’t want to admit that you know.

But what do I know? Maybe it’s just about the attention. About the connection. About the confrontation, one-sided as it is. About me and you having a moment. A back and forth. A choreographed little dance.

A dance. ’s alright with me. I’ve always loved the movement, always enjoyed the rhythm. Always enjoyed leading. Always known that I’ve really been led. Was it me or you who loved the twirls more? Me, because you were always so beautiful spinning around in my hand. You, because you never had more fun than in that moment.

No, a dance is alright, will always be alright. Have to remember that a dance is no substitute. There’s Real Life, and then there’s the little plays we put on to fill in the details. To dramatize it. Make it a story worth telling, to someone, someday, somewhere. At some point real life needs to come back in. Can fawn, and faux, and foil for only so long.

So I keep coming back. To the whisper, that whimper, or whatever it was. And I wonder, whatever was it that you were really trying to say?

Whatever is it that I’m trying to say?

---

What if you and I could only say one thing a day to one another? Each of us having a single chance to get it right for the day. Changes things, doesn’t it.

Now what about a week? A Month? A year? And what about once in a lifetime? Only one more thing to say.

Something happens, when you only get one shot to say something. First you pile it all in, every moment, every little detail, every possible thing that might be important. More, more, more. Wouldn’t want to miss something.

But then the timespan dilates. And interestingly, there’s less to say. But not really less – less only as in the quantity, less only as in raw bits and bytes. Because suddenly, there’s more to say. There’s more gravity, there’s more at stake for saying the right thing.

So you compress. You cut. You edit. You slim down. You trim. You are ruthless. You nip and tuck. No need for the details. Because all you need is all that matters.

In the end, it's all about bandwidth. When there's a lot if it, too much if it, all those unnecessary bits creep in. When it's limited, when every word and phrase counts, you make the most of it. Have to make the most of it. And something better comes out of it. Earnest. Honest. The truth. Everything that matters.

---

Communication has become so commodified, so prolific. Saying a thousand things in the course of a single minute is hardly a challenge anymore. We are inundated. Flooded.

But aren’t we really parched? Commonality brings frivolity, and frivolity destroys all meaning, all significance. What we sought was a connection; what we got was nothing more than a pile of words.

The Hook

Those noise-oholics. Those quiet-ophobics.

It's that part of the song.

Maybe it's a ho-hum melody. Your toes are tapping, in that kind of lethargic, reflexive way that they do. The beat's good, or good enough at least, in the kind of cookie cutter fast food assembly line prefab highly compressed noise arranged rhythmically that passes for music nowadays. In short you're into it, but you're not into it. This isn't the kind of song that makes you want to rub the fly of your pants into the back pocket of some girl at a club, spilling your drink over the entire left side of the dance floor in the process. Well, maybe you would, but you'd certainly be soft the whole time. That's probably her fault though. Not shaking it hard enough.

Where was I again?

Right. This isn't the song. Wasn't the song. Because now its that part of the song. In between the part of the song with the gummy, unintelligible lyrics and the part of the song that gets stuck underneath the layers of neurons and axons and dendrites and you'll need an auger and an aspirin or two to get out of your skull.

There's the hook.

The hook, where the music becomes original and personal for the tiniest moment, the only moment. Where the mood shifts, and things get real groovy, where you can't help but get carried away by the beat, where you feel it, really feel it, for the first time.

The part of the song that makes you want to jump in.

---

Jump in.

You know that look a dog gets on his face when he's on the edge of a pier? In that split second before he jumps with reckless abandon, instinctively making the Superman pose as the gravity pulls him closer and closer into the water. His eyes are wide, there's a fire burning hot in each pupil, tongue hanging out, a little mouth-cape flapping in the wind.

He knows it's his moment.

I'm surrounded by hounds, eyes fixed on that great body of water the one our conversation is drowning in. All poised, haunches cocked and ready to launch. Who's the lucky one that gets the next jump off. Who gets to make the next wave, ripples on the mirrored face. Who gets to make the bigger splash. Who gets to win. All of them, every one, waiting for the last few rings to flatten away to infinity in that reflecting pool - I wonder if they even see the water they're diving into, or just the glassy, shiny reflections of themselves.

I'm surrounded by hounds, and all of them, every one, are looking to be top dog. there's nothing to listen to but the panting, panting, panting as they wait to jump in.

---

A great conversation isn't much different than a great song. An ensemble of parts, coming together, all beating together, back and forth, ebb and flow, give and take, playing off one another.

This isn't the song. This is the wait your turn. This is the out-do your neighbor. This is the look what I can do. This is the look what I did. This is the I can do better. This is the did I tell you about the time. This is the never heard this one before. This is the one-upping. This is the arms race. This is the mutually assured destruction. This is the cold war.

This is cock measuring, and there are no ties.

This is the hook. In between the part of the conversation where one person ends one boastful non-sequitur and another one begins. The part where the ripples fade in that gleaming pool of water and the muscles tense and the spring tightens and in an instant it'll be off to the races because being first means it's you, interesting you, the everyone gets to bob their head to and tap their feet to and sing along to for the foreseeable future.

Make it count - every story needs to be better than the one before it. There's an irony if there ever was one, because it's only the ending that has any value. Surrounded by hounds, and all of them, every one, has their snouts in the air, and they're sniffing out, searching for a denouement. Getting ready for the next chance to jump in.

---

Jump in.

I'm surrounded by hounds, and they're looking at me like I'm the sheep. Looking at me like I'm dinner. Looking at me and don't know what to think because I'm still dry, still haven't made a wave, made a splash. Still haven't jumped in.

Jump in.

It's less of an invitation and more of a plea, now. More of a demand, even. More of a walk the plank situation, really.

None of it computes. Here I am, gagged and bound by my own choosing. Here they are, blindfolds on and earplugs in by their own actions.

Here I am, waiting for the right song, the right duet, the right instruments, the right band. Here they are, waiting for the right moment to jump in.

Jump in?

Thanks, but I think I'll take my chances on the shore.