Читать книгу A Pretty Sight - David O'Meara - Страница 8

Home, my coat just off, the back room

murky and static, like the side altar of a church, so at first

I don’t know what I hear:

one low, sustained, electronic note

keening across my ear. I spot

the stereo glow, on all morning, the cd

at rest since its final track, just empty signal now,

an electromagnetic aria of frequency backed

by the wall clock’s whirr, the dryer droning in the basement,

wind, a lawn mower, the rev and hum of rush hour

pushing down the parkway. I hit the panel’s power button,

pull the plug on clock and fridge, throw some switches,

trip the main breaker, position fluorescent cones to stop traffic.

Still that singing at the edge of things.

I slash overhead power lines, bleed the radiator dry,

lower flags, strangle the cat

so nothing buzzes, knocks, snaps or cries.

I lock the factories, ban mass

gatherings, building projects and roadwork,

any hobbies that require scissors, shears, knitting needles, cheers,

chopping blocks, drums or power saws. It’s not enough.

I staple streets with rows of egg cartons. I close

the airports, sabotage wind farms, lobby

for cotton wool to be installed on every coast. No luck.

I build a six-metre-wide horn-shaped antenna, climb

the gantry to the control tower, and listen in.

I pick up eras of news reports, Motown, Vera Lynn, Hockey

Night in Canada, attempt to eliminate all interference,

pulsing heat or cooing pigeons, and yet there it is:

that bass, uniform, residual hum from all directions,

no single radio source but a resonance left over

from the beginning of the universe. Does it mean

I’m getting closer or further away? It helps to know

whether we’re particle, wave or string, if time

and distance expand or circle, which is why

I need to learn to listen, even while I’m listening.