The Cacophony of the Dead

The Cacophony of the Dead

Copyright 2013 by
Bill Rayburn

I have listened to my father my whole life even though he has been dead since 1979. His voice has never wavered and, in fact, has gained resonance over the ensuing years. His tone of certainty and finality was not diluted by his suicide, nor was his unwavering belief in my own fallibility and incompetence. When he killed himself, we had already mutually vacated each other’s lives, so there was little physical adjustment to his sudden self-avulsion from my life.

However, he remained in my head, my ear, my gut, even my heart. For years after his death, I didn’t want him in me at all. With time came a grudging acceptance of the fact he was not going away, that he would forever inhabit my mind and soul, for better or for worse. Perhaps as a father should.

Were I a father, I would be pleased with that as my legacy, to imbue myself into the lining of my son, during and after my life. It would signify that I mattered, that I’d made an impact of enough depth to have earned the right to stay with him through his life, remora-like.

Voices from the grave seem, oddly, to carry more of a feeling of permanence; the words possessing a gravitas not equaled by those spoken by the living. When the words and wisdom, criticism and questions, come tumbling in from some ethereal abstraction, rising up from the grave or cascading down from the stratosphere, they are more difficult to suppress or even dismiss than the more direct methods of silencing dissenters that we employ when they are alive: imploring them to ‘shut up’; leaving the room; or in a perfect world, merely tuning them out.

I’ve discovered the dead cannot be tuned out. There is no exit door, stage left, like in a Noel Coward play, where you can simply remove yourself when things get unpleasant. You either face the music or pretend it is not there.

Denial is a road down which only the weak go. So I’ve faced the music. And it hasn’t been easy. Or fun.

From the graves of my dad, my mom and my oldest brother, rarely do I hear encouraging, nurturing song. No, what I have been confronted with has been a chorus of disharmony and discordance, a lyrical dance of regret-filled barbs, questioning every one of my steps along the way. When alive, the three of them rarely saw eye-to-eye. In the afterlife, assembled and seated as my judge, jury and executioner; they were more simpatico that same-party politicians and seemingly united in their displeasure in, and rejection of, my behavior.

A sounding board, even an internal one whose members are heard only from the dark, dank, fallow graveyards where the art of second-guessing lives freely can, at least on paper, be used to one’s advantage. Guidelines, signposts, parameters can all be established and identified and then used to keep one tethered to the ground.

On paper.

In reality, the dissonance that spilled forth from my town council of disapproving dead iconic family figures made me feel untethered, uncertain of myself and constantly questioning my own motivations. The undermining of my confidence seemed their main goal and more often than not they succeeded.

I learned over the years that I could control the volume level of their critical discord. When I was on solid ground in my life--confidence brimming, libido flourishing, love life pregnant with possibility and cohesion--I could suppress the nay saying dead triumvirates whom I was apparently destined to live with my entire adult life. I could reduce their raucous contrarianism to a low roar in order to allow myself to focus on my happiness, however short-lived.

During the darker days (years), this hat trick panel of discontent sat front row center at the stage of my life, critical quill poised to record the often overwhelming disappointment they felt at my ineptitude at navigating life. They seemed oblivious to the fact their very presence undercut any and all efforts I might make to be happy.

If not oblivious, then impervious or indifferent. It didn’t matter what their mindset was, the quills were always in motion, the barely perceptible but clearly evident quizzical shake of the head accompanying their frustration and displeasure at my feeble and feckless attempts to find contentment.

In ancient Rome, the First Triumvirate (60 BC) of POMPEY, Julius CAESAR, and CRASSUS was an informal group with no sanctioned powers. The Second Triumvirate (43 BC), consisting of Mark ANTONY, LEPIDUS, and Octavian (later AUGUSTUS) held absolute dictatorial power.

Dad, mom and Bob would have made that second Roman triumvirate very proud. They wielded their power over me with autocratic control and bone-chilling coldness. Their constant appraisal was always part of my conscious mental makeup as I was never unaware of their presence.

So, like the dance tryout scene from Flashdance, I fell, the record skipped, I had to begin two or three times, but eventually I was able to face these judges. To defend myself. To dance before them. Sure, I would never gain entry into their world of trust and love, but that became easier to accept as I grew older. Whether or not it was resignation, acquiescence, or a simple giving up, was secondary. By no longer consciously striving to gain their approval, by refusing to dance, I was establishing my own parameters. I constructed my own boundaries which kept them on the other side, reducing their effectiveness, their sphere of influence and ultimately freeing me from their day-to-day control of my life.

That alone was a triumph. I was clearly not going to be accepted into their pantheon of righteousness. This alleged “jury of my peers” had long ago sentenced me to mediocrity and self-doubt. They had labeled me a disappointment and in lieu of a second-guessing re-evaluation, they had determined it was their duty to keep me down, to reinforce their hastily-arrived-at conclusions.

I still hear the voices from the grave occasionally, though the flow has become a trickle and their impact has been severely reduced. I live and lead a lonely life.

It is my choice.

When I die, I hope my voice does as well.