Static

In response to

A Music Room, by Tom French

In a room built for music

by a man who knew how

a note was sung, and how

the plumb line worked,

from which we have spent

the day moving the music,

reading labels, touching them,

there is one last thing to do –

find a socket for the player,

retrieve a record from the car,

slip it from its pristine sleeve

and bow our heads to listen,

as men who are praying bow,

to the static that brings us back –

then, out of the static, violins;

a man opens his heart, and sings.

Static is all around us as we move through urban landscapes. The nonsensical chattering, the hiss of rubber tyres on the roads, the chastising of errant children, all add to the general cacophony of city life. To escape from its relentless intrusion into our minds, we need to go to the countryside or to a deserted beach. But, even in these places, our thoughts will not be undisturbed. The breeze rustles the leaves on the trees, birds call to each other, the voices of cattle and the throb of distant tractor engines, singly or collectively disturb. By the sea. the raucous cries of gulls and the lapping of the water on land, all add to the static from which we sometimes seek to escape.

I used to love my record player. Not just mine, mine and my sister's. We saved and saved and bought a cheap one. It looked good but the sound wasn't great. It didn't matter. We spent days and days listening to the same songs – American Rock over and over again, dreaming of moving to NY, San Francisco, Los Angeles. Escape to something new.

Around the time of my A Levels, things got really out of hand. Drank too much. Too many parties. I felt I deerved to have fun, although fun it definitely wasn't sometimes. I drank to suffocate myself, to push down a reality I didn't know how to deal with. Me and my sister both. We used to buy cheap beers and vodka, keep it under the bed and drink it warm behind the closed door of our bedroom, when we were supposed to be asleep. Even then we listened to our records, with the volume on 0 all we could hear was the needle on the record producing the faintest sounds, like a singer singing with both hands on the mouth; like drumming on cotton wool. We got drunk in semi-silence, waiting for our parents to fall asleep so that we could climb down the balcony into the garden, then off to another beach party, more drinking... A Level exams in the morning with a hangover.

Oh to be young and reckless.

Oh to be reckless and frightened.

Oh to be frightened of what lies ahead.

Oh. Not immediately liking that. It seems dusty. Not gathered dust easily found and plucked off by searching fingers, but free floating dust filling the space, getting into my lungs, coughing. What is static? Electrical. Energy. It could be exciting – am I writing away from where I started? The image of coughing, dust-filled lungs feels too raw with images of the men who struggle to breath – my dad, A’s dad and now I think of the coal-men. After they strode to their carts and rode off down Glenholm Park and into their lives beyond heaving coal, after a lifetime of inhaling the dark particle matter, what were their days like, what were their breaths like? Did their labours continue? What kind of gratitude is that for the sweat of their brow, the muscular swing of sack day after day, weeks, months, years. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Normally I write “keep writing”. Breath has replaced writing today. What happens when what we breathe in isn’t fresh air? What capacity do we – I – have to sift, to filter, to find the oxygen, to let the rest settle. The settling of dust, so quiet and gentle, yet in the wrong place lethal. Clogging, obscuring. Hard to see a clear way forward. What lies ahead, beyond the dust? Beyond the static? The blackbird sings. Each new day, a song in praise of life, in gratitude. Heartfelt, down on my knees, I bow, I pray. At the moment, I love my life. It has been a long time coming. I hope I always feel this way. I hope I can always find my way back to the note, the song, the open heart. To embrace the life I have as long as I have it. And now I look back and see the pains and difficulties that I have so long struggled to make sense of, to find a way to hoist up onto my shoulder, to find a way to bear their weight. Now I see I’ve grown stronger. And I do hoist and carry and head to my cart. And I set off beyond Glenholm Road into the future. Into the unknown, with gratitude, with glad heart. I raise my voice to the skies. I sing. I call to Belle the sheepdog and she goes off into the distance, not too far, and nudges the sheep into a soft mass of trotting curls and they head home toward me and I feel such pride, such joy. Pride comes before a fall my mother always said. It’s haunted me long, but not today. This is a blossoming pride.