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Silent Voices


The thinker in the master is never truly silent.

Even when keeping schtum, say while listening to others speak, you can sometimes hear the voices his physical features emanate, loud and clear. The eyes squinting uncomfortably at erroneous facts, as if to say, “really”; the brow lightly wrinkling and the lips stiffening at the mention of something embarrassing; the partially suppressed and mischievously condescending smile, as if to say, “you are out of your depth here mate”; the nervous fidgeting of the legs, when he didn’t want to be there, or when he was working to catch a deadline.

Yesterday, after a long period in which either one or the other was absent, the guys were sat about the kitchen table chatting away, in the company of close friends, over wine, cheese and nibbles. There was nothing unusual, just general banter. Frau Schroeder was in the corner sat on the tub-chair next to the DAB radio, impatiently working the tuner to try and find something worth listening to. Somebody mentioned about some band they were excited to be going to see live, and which could be the next big thing in british music in 2013. Another talked of the new cheap wine joint they had recently stumbled across, and how it would save them loads on “alcohol expenses”. And yet another flagged up the rumour regarding the FBI’s blind eye to an alleged plot to assassinate the leaders of Occupy Wall Street, comparing them to the KGB, and his amazement as how the big press outlets didn’t even carry the story. A group of them, including the master sat silently, gazing at the ugly kitchen tv, fascinated by a rescreening of TV’s 50 greatest magic tricks.

Then someone passed around some A4 colour print out sheets images including these:

Which elicited a number of ouch’s, uh’s and ah’s. A general cringiness filled the room as almost everyone expressed displeasure against the gory images.
“Where did you get them?” someone asked.
“Emailed to him by a friend” another responded.
“And without asking what sort of person sends others images of tortured prisoners, why would you then print them?” another inquired.
“Well, sharing is caring isn’t it?” the owner of the images finally responded. I sensed a hint of sarcasm.
“Nooo” a third lady’s voice bellowed in protest “They are disgusting, everything about them is wrong…you shoudln’t print such things”

All throughout this conversation, sat on my mat, I enjoyed the subtle deliberate facial expressions on the master’s face in reactions to everything he was hearing on the table, which were nothing short of comical. I would pay £££ to see his reactions through it all again. Priceless.

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