A garbage truck thunders past, doubling the thirty mile per hour speed limit. Then a slow car. And another. Then quiet except for the crinkle-strain-crinkle-strain of the palm paddles on the ceiling fan above my head. Type. Click, click, click. (Source: “Sound Escape”, 40×41: Midlife Crisis Postponed)

Excerpted from a soundscape poem originally called “Bucolic Study”, but probably eventually called something different once it finds itself, determines what exactly it wants to be when it grows up. Noises, auditory textures, and distractions are the main subject, but blogging and silence and the passage of time – yes, especially the passage of time – wander through the sounds like interlopers at a gallery opening.

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