There’s a bit towards the end of the sound bath where the ruckus quietens and distils into something smaller and more potent than all its parts: like the image of bunnies bouncing in loops around verdant slopes, like the sound of the feeling of a pea aubergine bursting against the weight of your teeth. It feels tight and right; you become sound. It’s not comfort-making per se, but it disembodies in all the good ways. I am just a (part of a w)hole, sir.
Opening eyes torpidly in a candlelit church hall, the elderly woman next to me has fallen asleep with a smile on her face. The very Scottish older man wants to make sure everyone knows what he thought of it (not enough gongs).
But now I have places to be and realities to engage with, bodies of time and matter that must be moved through again.
Until next time.