Friday 2 February 2018

Memory Mix 3 (Octophonic)

1

Hail stones falling on the roof of an attic. Alerted first by the odd one or two that thunk loudly on the roof tiles in the relative silence up here, soon several fall in quick succession. A sort of sweeping clattering ensues as the storm grows in intensity as it concentrating all it's violent energy on this one roof, hammering in irregular targets above my head. Those stones falling on the single solitary skylight adds a fragile ring to the thundering above, and which as the storm swiftly passes and the onslaught abates, now tinkles, ebbs away before quietening once again.

2

In an office doing data entry with a group of other temps. Easily distracted from our mundane task, I attune my ears to our fingers typing on the keyboards. Patterns and rhythms seemingly emerge intermittently before being absorbed into a chaos of keystrokes, dulled digit taps, mouse clicks which pause and pick up pace seemingly at random. These sounds pause and repeat endlessly, just as my own efforts appear first to lead loudly, then obediently follow, before also then becoming absorbed.

3

A bluebottle fly caught in the recess between the outer and inner windows of my studio. It's buzzing entirely silenced I'm alerted to its presence by the muted thumping as it attempts to escape. Flying repeatedly into the panes of glass, and pausing frequently, then renewing its assault, the fly continues to vainly search for a way beyond the invisible obstacle. Gradually, and painfully, pitifully, these attempts soon wane in enthusiasm before eventually fading altogether. The fly lies dead.

4

A woman in high-heels dashing, or I should say shuffling, quickly across the marble concourse of a station. The natural reverb of the vaulted roof carries the sound far and wide around the hall, her steps producing a series of irregular click-clacking as she runs to catch her train. Stopping midway to adjust one heel on her ankle, she resumes her pace almost at a stagger, skidding in a scuffling recovered stumble, which adds a note of drama to the sound. Pausing briefly to catch her balance, foot firmly forward she shuffles loudly on, stamping the surface again and again and again.

5

A tap dripping in a flat. Impossible to halt completely (no matter how hard I try!), one can alter only the frequency and intensity of the drips into the the deep metallic basin. Occasionally plates, bowls, mugs may temporarily adjust it's purring patter with the cliche splish splash plop or plink. One afternoon, irritated by this relentless pissing of time, I adjust the angle of the tap so the water quietly trickles down the rim. Delighted at first by the peace that descends, I soon discover as the sink gurgles and glugs that this quiet now too drains away.

6

A man on crutches easing himself along the street. Moving in an irregular rocking motion, puffing slightly, straining on his weight, the crutches squeak, rattle creak on each step forward, with a muted sound somewhere between hard plastic and soft metal. Turning his head now, the man sees a bus approaching, and picking up his pace swings himself toward the stop some distance ahead. Passing him on the kerb the bus shows no sign of slowing, continuing it's journey instead without stopping. Hurried, the man eventually does reach the stop, where he sits and flops, and casting the crutches to the floor in a pathetic and careless clatter he utters a breathless "Fuck."

7

The indicator on my mother's car. It never fails to ignite a rhythm in my mind; it's thwick-clicking thwick-click, providing a precise and measured interval to all the other noises. It's cold and frosty this morning so Mum puts on first the heating - a welcome warm and airy hiss - followed by the windscreen wipers which groan across the glass. Shaving a little ice from the sheet with each shuddering stagger as it skates back and forth, it adds a rubbery cello to the car's composition, which when the car turns the indicator curiously complements.

8

A truck with loose iron chains dangling from a cradle for carrying a skip. As it turns a corner sharply at a junction, the chains clang noisily against the metal cradle like an anchor against a ship. As the truck straightens its path the chains flail more wildly, colliding with each other in a dulled clack and chunky chink, before striking the cradle again with a loud bang. Sounding two or three times as it passes down the street, I imagine the driver a composer listening and improvising to every jolt, turn, and halt.