Outside tonight the birds still sing as if their life depends upon it.That sense of wanting to sing,needing to sing,having to spring is most intriguing.If we think about it,if we had something like that in our life,wouldn’t we be content,at peace ready to put up with any manner of tough stuff just as lng as we had something really meaningful to do or say .
Now,I use the example of birds,because they are often my first physical sound that I hear as I awake.Yep,I’m lucky,very lucky,but that is my authentic life,When I was a child,it was the sound of men leaving for work down the clay pits in Cornwall.Even though they weren’t deliberately noisy,I could hear their hobnail boots clattering on the concrete pavement.You could set your watch my them,and their smokers coughs,their harsh Cornish dialects as the vowels meshed into one homogenous assault on the senses.
Sometimes,as the birds compete with their fellow tree occupants,I wonder wether they sang just as much in Cornwall when I were a child,but the scrapping of those hobnails drowned out their dulcet tones,leaves no me with that industrial,bleak perspective,quite alien to the tourist who frequented the Atlantic hinterland.
To me,I’ve always been profoundly affected my sound ,and sounds of nature or of industry have always fascinated me as they bunch up in my mind,causing an influx of beating noises inside my brain that transfer me to their world so to speak.Yes,my eyes tell me much about my world,but my ears inform me,fill me with insight,my ears are the vehicle that equates true communion wth my mind.My perceptions of audible sounds alert me to where I am ,to where I would like to go to,to where I aspire too.
Just the sound of a vmusic ice conjures up a memory of that person.Why even now,if I were to really concentrate I can hear the voices of the people who have helped me in my life who are long gone now,but I can still hear them.Yes,physically,their bodies deteriorate with age,as we all surely must,but their vocal timbre still exists in that irresistible time capsule of wonderment.It is a wonderful that no to behold the human voice,as it contains the palette of all our lives and we are richer beings through the textures of our voices.
So,now I attend to my feathered friends,I thank them for their concert this evening,and as I do,I spare a thought to those men ,those workers with hands,with muscle,with sweat and tears,those men with their dialecticle Cornish spreading their vocal Faye into the Cornish atmosphere,and I still remember them,and somehow I always will.
My life is not one in pursuit of things,f stuff ,of security,it is in my observances ,my appreciation for organised sounds as I like to call them,for the perception of ideas,and not the accumulation of th nags which I leave to others,and I wish them well.
No,I wish to leave my legacy of observation,my impressions of great music,my family,my pupils,for in them are comrade Ned my treasures .
Thank you birds for these sound textures tonight ,and as darkness descends ,I yearn for your morning song.But thank you Arthur Medlin,Vernon Tamblin,Peter Trenbath,and Frank Pothergary,men hopefully now at rest in their retirement who gave us the coating for our glossy magazines,our domestic face powder,our flat roofs,our slate roofs if our income could stand it,our blue circle cement,our ornamental stone.Yes,all that sturdy,no nonsense stuff that has to be mined from the ground,blasted ,washed,and separated.Thank you for those memories.
Sound muse from tonight.