My chapped hands are wavering on the keyboard. They have weathered the storm.
The past is the bellowing voice of the wind and its gusts. It is blowing from a year ago, echoing a cascade of shed pearls spilling on the floor like tears, the piercing cry of a young tree felled by the howling gales, the creak of the brittle glass beaker that cracked, but that won’t break.
Listen, tonight, listen to the wind speaking.
It reminds me what I once wrote: I was sitting on an inflatable exercise ball, surrounded by scattered boxes, after a hurried relocation.
A year on, boxes and a ball once more, and an envelope I am holding in my hand. The most precious gift.
The hourglass turns, the sand grinds the glass down. Time is a rough substance, it trickles through our fingers, it scratches our skin, it won’t stop. This blog, too, shall go on. Drop by drop, what most counts is that what drips, but is not lost…
To mark this first year, here’s a collection of recordings (click and download, it won’t play otherwise). The voices of the laboratory where I work, sounds without men, voices of instruments, of appliances, of noises that speak.
Like this west wind, fierce and wild.
Can spring be far behind?