 |
| The Stone Tapes - Avebury - Available to buy as a digital download from Bandcamp here. |
Was this sent to me in the post or did I discover it in a
cavity between the two damp granite walls of a forgotten stately home? Did I,
driven by the impulse of a voice within me, frantically tear it from the mud
and sod of a field deep in the heart of the West Country? Was I surrounded by
ancient stones that seemed to sing out to me when touched or gently caressed? I
am uncertain. Is this a genuine recording created using up to date digital
technology or are they the sounds captured in the lusum magnetite of the dank
walls, playing back when the atmospheric conditions are just right? There is an
uncertainty here. This uncertainty is frightening and this fear is rich and
sublime.
I listen again to ensure that it is not simply my own
imagination or a half forgotten dream, but there it is; the voice in the
static, the seemingly innocuous information about Avebury, the snatches of
phone conversation with one voice strangely distorted. Is it deliberate? I
don’t know. But I am unsettled, I am frightened and this fear is alive and
immediate. But I welcome this and I stroll towards it all, arms wide.
In West Kennet the ritual has begun and my head spins, half
formed voices dance out at me from within the ether, the whirling electronic
dervish excites, inviting me to join the dance but I must not. I must resist. I
take shelter in the lychgate, the rain pummelling down all around me and for a
moment all is calm.
The rain stops and I venture towards the Owl and Druid Stone. I know I should not touch it but my hand is pulled forwards. The voices
and tones thrust into me like lightning into bark. I am among the petrosomatoglyphs,
the damp and the drip, the indistinct. The sound grows, it ululates through me
as I spin, the light between the stones scratching at my retinas with every
pass. My feet leave the ground, stray ends of grass tickling at my bare feet as
I rise a narrow herepath before me, made of silver and granite. On closer
inspection the path is festooned with tiny carvings, myriads of spirals,
symbols, laughing mouths. The mouths move and speak and sing and question and
grin. I am lost. I fall.
Reality seeps in. A voice clear and distinct on the end of a
crackling line gives thanks. But, it flits away and deeper voices and drifting
tones chant around me.
A cry. Someone is lost. But how can you be lost if you stand
in one place? How can you be lost if you have not moved from the centre of a
field? The sound builds, a low hum, growing. Reassuring dots and bleeps try to
break through, but something is crawling in the dark. Something is in the way.
I cannot move.
I am overtaken. I should not have listened to the Stone
Tapes for madness seeps through. Sometimes we look to deep into the dark,
sometimes we travel too far.
I have removed the headphones but Avebury is still within
me. The sounds among the stones are sounds among the synapses. The stones are
seen when I shut my eyes, when I blink, when the sunlight scrapes across the iris,
the stones creep through into the dark.
Do not listen.
Do not listen.
Do not lis
Do not
Do
Sink. Tread. Spin.
Let it in. Let the stones in. Let them all in.
No comments:
Post a Comment