baresi sounscape

A good night’s sleep is like a present. In a dream where I am hot-footing it out of the city towards Woody Creek (a six week walk) carrying the shopping (Oranges, grapefruit yoghurt, prickly pears etc) there are two pianos playing. Their rhythms overlap discordantly and yet precisely. I shall get there in the end, although I am currently lost in a dark field, having left the traffic headlamps behind.

Coming out of the dream, I awake to hear one piano playing. Offstage. Jazzy tunes. A family is congregating, also offstage. A child drops its toy. The toy meets the marble floor above like a stone dropped from the leaning tower of Pisa. Gravity still working. Offstage, a baby cries. Chairs are shifted. The sound effect of a train sweeps past, outside. The buzz of scooters, the rustle of traffic. The piano keeps going. It’s music is now radical. Shostakovich meets Earl Hines meets Rolf Harris.

The shutters are still shut. The big room retains its dreamspace. Outside life permeates the skin, but time is just an Ikea light which can be switched off at any moment, banishing the world.