Pacing back and forth in the grey car park. Hands shaking for an unknown reason. Smoking, thinking, ‘why smoke?’. Small birds screaming in the bushes; each fighting to be heard. And it’s as though it’s too much to listen to. Some say that the sound of the bird is one of life affirming wonder; though pacing that cold, steel grey car park they wanted to shut up if I’d had an old blunderbuss to hand; one filled with rusty nuts and bolts. The whole world, in fact, in that moment would have done well to simply quieten down and leave noise alone for a second, minute, hour or day. A week would be wonderful. So that’s the reason for me hanging around the shooting range without ear protection. For an hour or so of torture, you get a good day or so of peace. To not hear or understand what someone is saying, to be deaf to the radio blaring its offensive, commercialised hell sounds, to be unaware of the scream of an unlucky rabbit as it’s crushed by a fat car filled with fatter idiots; all of these are a source of relief and, without meaning to exaggerate, salvation. The music is all in my head. Selecting precisely what to listen to is not a chore, in fact, it happens automatically, without prompt.
In dreams, sound is suggested, a memory – not real.