From my bunker, the little opening above my head reveals clouds passing fast, being partially obscured by foliages blown by the wind. I stand still, alert of any movements of my body in my concrete amplifier. Drops from the outside world are leaking in, cadencing a new pace for me, filling my space with time.
I am waiting. When to stop, when to start?
“Since when had he been waiting? Waiting is always a wait for waiting, wherein the beginning is withheld, the end suspended, and the interval of another wait thus opened (1)”
The levels of my recording machine were not ready for this. This is not good. When will it fill my space again through the hole, and vanish gradually? My bunker sustains time but cannot hold it. I know now.
I am waiting for the thunder, it is bound to happen again, it must; I have to be quick, to respond by action, to adjust my level in time silently.
When will it come? The drops and gusting wind are forgotten for some time.
It was louder than I expected. But I think I got it, yet I know it will come again; It could be better; maybe it will last longer, or it will have more variations in its sustain?
Waiting ends without having to put an end to the waiting.
The thunder is now a foghorn.
I always had a liking for this low resonant sounds coming from afar and getting lost in a different horizon. I feel great satisfaction with my new capture. It envelops warmly as a felt shroud.
I move. I become as thick as resonant. Is there anyone out there? I can hear you breathe. The monologue turns into a dialogue.
Voicing out myself out of my body, I fill the space, I hear my form being shaped and transformed. A certain dizziness. I am intoxicated with my feedback. I am circular and wide, I am moving fast, yet still.
A gust of wind takes over as I am only flesh and bones again.
It’s time to leave before darkness put an end to the difference of light between outside and inside my concrete cylinder.
1: Maurice Blanchot, 1997.Awaiting Oblivion ‘Trans’John Gregg’ Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, p.25