nathan curnow | qarrtsiluni

EVP

January 30, 2008 2 comments

following my night in a ‘haunted’ hearse

The waveform charts an ambiguous sound
recorded at 4am. A rise and fall amid the fuzz —
I admit there is interference. The engineer cuts
with the click of a mouse, isolating the event.
Confined to the studio, I am surrounded by terms,
Aux1, D-verb, 12 TalkBck. He tweaks the dials
with an arrow-hand, manipulates the trim, sailing
a sea of 5.1 for a whisper in a storm. A siren
sings the briefest song, two syllables on repeat
rolling across my ear’s taut drum. I am stranded
in this peculiar ship. Bent in devotion, closer
to the speakers, submitting my cheek for the slap.
The engineer says he is amplifying with 120db
of extra gain. I have been shanghaied again
behind polished glass, a space filled with shady
language. Just one clear word from the nebula,
some colour to this white noise. Stuck on a loop,
a listening trap, drawn late into the night. Death
works like this, stealing strips of life, feeding on
the prying mind. The engineer looks up, says
it is all Greek to him, charging extra for his time.
But the hint of one word is breaking me down.
My wife keeps txting me home.

by Nathan Curnow