In the room I have so dutifully prepared, I take my seat at the desk that was once my father’s. The pages of my open journal are washed in the cold light of approaching autumn, streaming from the skylight. I feel the pleasure of breathing the rooms Spartan air but I write nothing. Not yet. Instead, I listen for frequencies, rogue or otherwise, using the equipment sent to me by S. from his island off the coast of Spain. He is the third mind companion; I have traveled treacherous domains with him without stepping outside my door. There are no real instructions attached, save to think of nothing. A bowl to fill with the sounds only a dog might hear. I can feel them.
I had written my Manifesto of May without any awareness for what I was preparing. As in times past, I think of Orpheus, tapping into frequencies as if an open wound from the radio of an impounded Rolls Royce. Somehow Jean Cocteau was aware of certain nether-world transmissions and their potential worth. I wonder of the source that generates from my present industrial muse. I listen, but not for words only sound- the mathematic origins of poetry- as known to Pythagoras, John Cage or Rimbaud.
I remove the black cloth and switch on the recorder. It is not an ordinary recorder, for it does not save, but transmitts. Bits and pieces, abstractly intense, reminiscent of ancient fragments of an unknown language, when stitched together read as messages, lending toward instruction. The microphone is no ordinary Neumann. It does not send out my voice, as much as receives the sounds of another, decidedly canine. Then another kind of sound, almost humanoid, still without the use for words 2 good . A mix of dawn and stars. I keep track in a small notebook. For moments I feel overwhelmed, it seems to me everything organic pulses sound to say nothing of motorbikes, pages turning and toy robots walking across the bending grasses. I make note of each sound and the number or word it implies, having no idea what it all means. It’s not important, says a voice, soothing, yet somewhat detached. I attempt to photograph the microphone during transmission, to provide documentation, but find nothing in my phone, save the image of a dried sunflower on a slender stem.
The pandemic recedes and expands. Some mornings there are no transmissions. I have a sudden revelation that I must eliminate the desk, as its drawers are filled with sentimental remnants of the twentieth century. The desk has no value save that it was my father’s which also makes it beyond price. It is an ordinary wood desk with six drawers, that was painted over several times. Now an oxblood color with remnants of decals my mother applied to its surface. With great effort I move it into the bathroom which is abnormally spacious. A generous friend agrees to bring my metal worktable upstairs. I walk around the block until the task is done. How he managed it I can only guess, added to the fact that he also brought the desk downstairs. My metal worktable is entirely utilitarian, my station is complete.
What to do with the balance of my time? I prepare and eat meals, wash my clothes, feed my cat and write imaginary letters never sent to my friends and children. All somewhere else. Time is folding in strange ways. It had snowed in April. It is hot in the dead of winter. The time of the drought is burning the west. But here the endless rain beats on my skylight like the rainy season in Africa. Dozing, I am there again, in Namibia, beneath a roof of corrugated aluminum. I dip further into sleep in a dense black night where the sky seems to drop. So overwhelmed by the spectacle I call for help, loud enough to wake me from my sleep. My cat was circling. It is 5:45am, my new waking time. I wash her dish and prepare her food, fresh water. Then return to my work table, removing the black cloth.
After several hours of non-action, I push aside my books and notes, open my window and take deep unmasked breaths. Something is calling. A desperate raging for human kind. Some entity beckoning to cross over, grasp the ungraspable, and return, armed as Ismael, with a story. There are many ways of entering parallel worlds. The most uncharted is through madness, chemical, blood. The artist and the dreamer enters as John Coltrane, with notes ascending and returning. There are many ways to enter but there are as many ways to be denied.
And so, each night and early morning I find myself as a detective with no crime. I press a spring that pierces my finger. Just a few drops of blood. It is my entrance fee into the realm of poet detective, where the likes of Sebald or Tarkovsky stand at the gate. Nothing is happening, I tell them. Let me be your acolyte. Lend me ears to hear.“Be patient,” I am counseled. Then everything is silence.
Create your
podcast in
minutes
It is Free