A Row of Trees
The Journal of The Sonic Art Research Unit
[1] – Flickering in the distance.
I’m in the subway in Paris. It’s night time. I glance through the glass. Framed by the window, a solitary station. A man is sitting on a bench in the middle of the platform. Elbows on knees, head between hands. I can’t see his face. He’s barefoot.
The train goes into a tunnel. Everything’s dark.
Now out of the tunnel. A few steps away, in front of me, a man is sitting. Elbows on knees, head between hands. Moccasins. He’s not wearing socks.
[2] – At the other side of the mirror.
My mother lives with three cats. Two of them are brown, one is grey. Duende is the name of one of them. Last month I visited my mother. This month I’m in a city more than ten thousand kilometres away from her. Every morning I go to a cafe where three cats live. Two of them are grey. One of them is black. Duende is the name of one of them. My breakfast is less than 10.000 CL$.
[3] – Burning.
I’m sleeping in a hotel at 13, rue de la Lune, at the upper floor of a small building. I’m woken up by the fire alarm. I put on some clothes and get out the room. I’m going down the stairs. The concierge is going up. She says someone just lit cigarette.
I’m sleeping in a hotel at the upper floor of a big building. I’m woken up by the fire alarm. I put on some clothes and get out the room. I’m walking down the stairs. No one’s out. At the third floor I’m startled by the sight of a man’s silhouette. At the ground floor the concierge explains that someone just burnt their toast.
I spend some time in the afternoon looking for a bakery at Calle de la Luna, 14.
I’m back home. I’m going up the stairs. At the third floor I’m startled by the sight of a man sleeping on the ground. In the morning he’s still there and he’s smoking a cigarette.
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