In Denver, I endured three days of torture when I wrote my comps for the Ph.D., not because of the exam, but because I was confined to a small space with four gum chewers, smacking and cracking.
2.
In New Orleans, where I lived for more than two decades, ambient noise scrambled my brain. Someone else's music or conversation always assaulted me whether I was riding the streetcar, sitting in my own backyard, reading at the library, or even walking in the park at first light.
3.
In childhood, I remember silence before 24-hour-365-day-a-week television, muzak, cell phones, and utter disregard for others' personal space. Because no person nattered on and on, I could hear the natural sounds of the woods behind the house -- singing and chirping, whirring and slapping, buzzing and thumping.
4.
Walking today, I listened to my breath, my steps, my camera lens, rain snapping leaves, and the creek, a small fall pooling and plashing, and returned to complete silence at home.
5.
Some people ask Why would you want to live alone? How do I explain that I would be mad were it not for protection from other people's noise pollution?
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