|cinestill50d | newport | july|
I sit here on this living room couch with a hot mug of tea warming my aching ovaries as my body heat warms the leather seat. These are my 02:12 am observations:
1. The AC, a constant whir, has churned to a stop
2. The air duct in the ceiling creaks
3. My dad's snores are airy and inconsistent.
3a. Shit, is he breathing right now?
3b. Oh. Ok it's picked up again.
4. From my grandmother's room plays melancholy Indian music. Very low, melodic.
5. Tibby is walking around the house. His collar jingles, his paw pads.
6. He sniffs like a coke addict.
7. Tibby licks his lips a lot.
8. I hear a clock ticking.
8a. We don't have a clock??
9. There's a cricket quickly tapping somewhere beyond.
10. Indian music and snores compete for an audience.
11. The fridge joins in with a medium airy, wavy hum.
Freshman year of college, Jenkins began Intro to Fiction with what he called the greatest composition of all time. He pressed play and we heard nothing. Watching on screen, it was clear why: the violinists touched no bow to string, the winds held their breath, the triangle did not ring. Silence. at least, from an orchestral point of view. The people around me shifted with creaky chairs, sneakers padded dirty carpet, a bird chirped outside the window, and the projector hummed.
All this, I picked up in moments, minutes – my ears slowly getting used to honing in on what's around me. How often do I smother my surrounding sounds with bites of media? What am I missing? Hell, before I buckle, I hit shuffle.
Life is a series of ambience hidden under 2 dialogue tracks and a score. Time to hit the mute button.