Hallock Hill

Aphex Twin, “Avril 14th,” Drukqs (Warp, 2001)

Sitting out on the stone porch, a rain coming down on the roof, I in my rocking chair, and my wife and the boys sleeping inside. And it is cold. And the rain hasn’t stopped for it seems days and there I am wondering if this rocking too can persist with the same level of meaning. If I could, I’d hear them breathing inside. They sleep and I rock and the rain falls and there isn’t a relief to that, but it is relieving. In so far as each of these things makes a sound, and sound is good.

Underwater, the sound is hushed and muffled and life becomes garbled and unhinged. But the rain is just rhythm, and smell. Her hand is warm inside. There’s no need to think that she’d have to be cold. It is enough that I am out here, and keeping track of all this. Not writing it down. But I have it in mind.

There is the sound of what is going on and then the sound that is not going on and then there is the sound of the things making the sound. Such as the sound of the hammers on a piano just about to strike the string, or just lifting. Or sitting in the rocker and maintaining the creak that accompanies each movement fore or aft, each one slightly out of sync with the fluidity of the motion. Or the sound of a breath that has just escaped and still floats outward. Or this song. This song. Song.