Highest Fade

From the Editors at Highest Fade

A tale of auditory torture, quiet rage, and eventual enlightenment.

It began with a breeze.

Not a gale. Not a tempest. Just a whisper — enough to rustle a curtain, suggest a thought, or gently agitate the hanging hellmouth of hollow aluminum tubes that dangle six feet from my bedroom window.

I've timed it. They begin at 5:37 a.m. Not always. But often enough that my body now preempts the sound with a kind of dread-based early waking — as if my nervous system is trying to beat the chimes to the punch. As if my circadian rhythm is now governed not by light, but by noise. By the chaotic Morse code of polished rods striking each other in half-conscious symphony.

They are not melodic. These are not the gongs of Kyoto or the temple tones of a far-off monastery. These are the manic clatterings of a suburban sadist who, I now believe, purchased them not from a garden center but from an experimental noise unit in Berlin. I imagine the designer had a ponytail and wore tinted glasses indoors.

Week 1: The Rage

At first, I fantasized. Not about peace, but about precision sabotage. I imagined midnight missions with wire cutters. I googled "how to disable a wind chime without alerting the neighbor." I even considered buying my own — larger, louder — to escalate the conflict into a sonic arms race. A Cold War of acoustics, where decibels stood in for diplomacy.

I pictured wind chimes forged from ancient church bells or industrial steel. Something Wagnerian. Something apocalyptic.

But I did nothing. Because I am civilized. And because he is an attorney.

And so I suffered. In quiet dignity. Which is to say, I muttered to myself in a robe and stared at my ceiling for long stretches of the morning.

Week 2: The Bargaining

I tried to reframe it.

What if this was a test? A slow, metallic koan from the universe, gently clanging at my ego each morning until I released the need for silence?

I downloaded an app that claimed to harmonize your inner state using solfeggio frequencies. I played it at low volume while the chimes clattered outside. The result was less harmony, more avant-garde jazz. My cat left the room. Even the furniture seemed irritated.

Then I tried gratitude. "Thank you," I whispered to the chimes. "Thank you for the opportunity to let go."

They responded by entering a new level of chaotic improvisation. One tube detached and swung wildly like a drunk monk.

Week 3: The Resignation

Eventually, something shifted.

It wasn't acceptance — not really. More like a quiet surrender.

I no longer bristled. I no longer counted the seconds between clangs.

The wind would blow, the chimes would answer, and I… would continue chopping vegetables. Reading. Shaving. Living.

They became, in their own way, company. Irritating, metallic company. But company nonetheless. Like a neighbor you wouldn't choose, but who reminds you that the world isn't yours to curate.

I began to associate them with weather. With mornings. With the simple fact that I was still alive.

The Lesson

I have learned nothing, except this: There are things you cannot fix without escalation. There are sounds you cannot silence without compromising your dignity. And there are neighbors whose decor choices will follow you into death.

But there is also something noble — or at least mature — in restraint. In waking at 5:37 a.m., hearing the wind chimes, and choosing not to destroy them. Not because you don't want to… but because you've realized that becoming the man who cuts down another man's wind chimes is a greater tragedy than the sound itself.

And so I wait. For winter. Or perhaps… a stronger breeze.

Until then, I stir my coffee. I breathe. I listen. And I let them ring.