White Noise - March 24 2026

 

White Noise

March 24 2026

The pedestal fan purrs.

Its silky ribbons

dance downwind,

and the same stale air

flowing over me

has become a cool balm.

White noise lulls me to sleep.

A restful sleep

where I dream of flight,

and the cold thin air

at altitude

is nothing to me.

Where I look down, god-like

from a cloudless sky,

gliding as effortlessly

as those soaring birds

who stay aloft for days

at sea for months.

Air flows over me

with a deafening rush,

beating in my ears

like the thrumming of wind

at highway speed

driving with the window down.

But there is no sensation of speed;

the only clue I’m in motion

are the patchwork fields 

in browns and greens,

and the doll-house homes

getting incrementally bigger

the closer I get.

I survey the scene

with Olympian detachment,

because in dreamland

I have not only the power of flight

I am also immortal.

So when the fan stops

and the lulling monotone

turns to spiky silence

I remain calm,

watching earth approach

in the stillness of free-fall;

no sensation of speed,

no sound

except my own breathing. 

 Because in the respite of sleep

I am immune;

nothing to fear,

nothing to lose.

I almost always sleep with a fan. Prior to writing this, I read an article that raises some questions about the possible negative effects of fan noise (white noise, as well as “brown” and “pink” noise — yes, real classifications, ordered according to the predominance of lower frequencies) on both sleep and hearing. Nevertheless, I have absolutely no plans to change. My sleep with a fan is immeasurably better than without. 

An albatross may remain at sea for years; but even though they may not return to land in all that time, they do touch down on the water.  So instead of staying continuously aloft for months or even years — as I previously thought — it’s only for days at a time.