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Perhaps a starling? A blackbird? The bird song almost, but not quite,
repeated, melodic variation withheld and then unexpectedly given. The
window frames rattle percussively in response to the growing breeze.
Behind the sleeping family and the gulls and the birds and the gentle rain,
traffic noise is now discernible. Not yet in the focused form of a vehicle in
our street but still there as an ambient backdrop of tires on wet tarmac
and ill-defined engine murmur.
I am conscious now of my own breath, a sharp release through my nostrils.
Conscious too, suddenly, of the sounds of my bodys movement in the
bed, of legs drawn up then extended against the sheets, of my hair
brushing against the pillow and my nails scratching the skin of my upper
arms, of the cartilage in my finger joints as I snap them through a nervous
routine. Listening below those surface sounds, a persistent hum emerges
at the threshold of audibility; it seems to come from somewhere inside.
Maybe it is nothing more than the fridge downstairs or maybe its an
acoustic illusion born of excessive attentiveness combined with that
special fatigue that is the privilege of those who should be asleep.
Whatever its source, I try to grasp it and discern more of its shape and
colour.
Before I can capture the elusive drone, I become aware of another noise this time one that is unambiguously internal the noise of my thoughts.
This is not just the sound of nouns and verbs shadowing in distinct then
indistinct ways what might have been spoken aloud; that is what happens
when we are thinking as Wittgenstein might have said.
My thoughts now, with the bike lamp back on and my wifes snoring much
gentler. My thoughts, as I write then pause, write, then pause, my
thoughts also consist of fuzzy renditions of associated ideas. Forms of
what has once been heard but as might emerge from a turntable whose
stylus has accumulated a little coat of fluff. The start of the match scrape;
the wet ripple above the fish and a childs voice to the left; the thump of a
snowball against my taxi in Berlin; the rush of water beneath a manhole
cover and reverberation through a guttering pipe.
My brain too active to let me lie any longer, I switch off the bike lamp and
return it to the floor. I swing my legs out from under the duvet and rise
unsteadily to my feet, one hand holds the pencil and paper, the other
probes the beginning of a spot at the corner of my mouth. I creep out of
the bedroom like the worst actor portraying the worst burglar.
+++
As Marshall McLuhan once observed, there are no earlids. For the vast
majority of human beings, there is no escaping the external sound world,
even when asleep. Yet although complete escape is not an option, retreat
remains a possibility, a possibility that seems everywhere to be readily
grasped. The enduring derogation of sound in stubbornly visual cultures
can be traced across a number of indices, too many to be captured in this
short post. As one brief measure of sounds marginalisation, it is worth
conducting a concentrated listening experiment like the one described
above, if only to compare your discoveries to the soundscapes