The SOUND OF THE WORLD

These small scenes, or micro-fictions, are meant to capture my interpretation of the peculiar moods that The Book of Sorren imparts onto me.

- D

… of course there were legends, tellings and retellings of the strange, unnatural sounds that came from the forest each night, especially during the times of great darkness, when the moon was shy, and in hiding. The youngest members of the tribe found the allure of the unknown to be so enchanting, so wildly intoxicating that it caused them great anxiety and, as a result, a tiredness of their spirit. And though this experience came but once a month, they could never fully loose it from their minds and so they lived in a perpetual state of narration, of speaking to themselves in cryptic symbols, in hushed whispers. Curiously, the elders were moved in an altogether different manner. They found in the recurring episode a calming, rhythmic pulse which relaxed their inner energies, burrowing into limbs, into muscles, into secret thoughts and hiding places never meant for sharing. And when sleep came for the old men and women during these times their dreams placed them before a chanting crowd, a faceless, colorless assembly which was hungry for their story: what had they seen in the other world, the world beyond the soft, fleshy embrace, beyond the dark incessant drumming where beasts and the very stones themselves send forth their mating call, a strange, unnatural cry which fills the forests and the hills like the sound of the world?

Photography by Filip Zrnzevic.

Photography by Steven Lasry.

... he held the guitar in his hands, the fragrance of the wood inviting his mind to recall the tree which grew tall over many years, only to be commissioned for this purpose: giving shape and style and body, and when his fingers touched the strings his own body's instincts were aroused by faint memories of a life grazing beneath an open, cloudless sky, a life of listening for the shepherd, listening to the shepherd, to his voice, and his song.

… and as the waves crashed upon the shore, over and over again, it came to pass that none could prevent the invention of music, for the drumming of the waves and the clashing, as of cymbals, of the spray upon the causeway, was more than the mind of man could distract from their labours, and they turned to their own instruments to regain their peace, their peace of mind, and their peace of the eternal quiet of the night.

Photography by Gautam Arora.

… and before anyone had yet spoken there was a great quiet, for even the birds in the trees and the beasts in the fields knew not their purpose. But as the purpose began to reveal itself, the multitude could not then be silenced, and soon the revelation of the purpose was forgotten as an old man forgets his youth.

Photography by Vincent van Zalinge.

… we had been expecting their arrival for so long, and with such rapturous anticipation, that all of our conversations, all of the statements from our leaders and thinkers dwelt on what would be, and what should be said, and this continued until a consensus of the masses was formed. But when that fateful day came for our first contact, it was decided to send one appointed messenger, alone, to deliver the carefully chosen words which were given to her. She approached the others with her eyes gleaming and her arms outstretched and when she did so she forgot her tribe, she forgot the carefully chosen words and she did not see the look of terror in the eye’s of the onlookers. And in this moment of great forgetfulness, she raised her voice in song, and then left with the others.

Photography by Arnaud Mariat.

… the war had completely destroyed the world and as the last man walked across the broken landscape he listened intently for any sign of life, but all was empty, as in a vacuum. With hope nearly extinguished the man’s anguished ramblings now too ceased and a new thing was created: a silence not heard since the first beginning. In solitary desolation the man contemplated his own end and how he would bring it about. Sitting next to the sea he knelt before the great openness and wondered at its content. Walking into the sea he raised his hands one last time as a gesture of revolution and spoke the prayer that he had learned as a child, and the prayer left his lips and began to traverse the broken landscape, searching for any ear that might hear it, any ear that might believe it.

Photography by Thomas Q.

… once, long ago, a man had fallen asleep. The reasons for this were the same as they were for everyone: he had worked hard, he had set his energies onto his duties and obligations, and as he did so a great calm entered not his body, but his mind. His attentions, now limited and few, grew flaccid and in this weakened state the sleep began to assert control. With the sleep came the dreams. At first the dreams were frenetic, loud, pulsing with danger and unfulfilled passion. But as the visions gained deeper and more sustained control they seemed to give birth to a strange quietude, strange visions, and the dreamer began to question whether these were his yearnings or those of another. The sleep was not complete and the man yet walked in the world, slower now, older, unsure of many things, but mostly unsure of the location of the curtain between the waking and the dreaming. His energies and attentions were now given over blindly to this pursuit and in this state a great calm entered not his mind, but his body. The man’s dreams now became loud, pulsing with danger and passion and in this way he won the forgetfulness of the other, the one who yearns.

… then came the animals. At first they were small: rabbits, foxes, kittens, turtles. They spoke to him, seemingly as a group, but the man could not understand. Successively, the animals grew larger and larger until they stood before him, each on two legs and each beseeching him with questions which he somehow now could understand. They all wanted to know how he came to be here, among the animals, here, in this place of quiet. Their faces told him he was not welcome here and they slowly advanced upon him. The man ran now, as fast as he was able, the animals mere steps behind him, in chase, presumably to devour him. The sounds of their screaming, their howling and the hunger in their hearts had never before been heard here, and these vestiges now coalesced into a single, pulsating ember, a small flame that once started, would certainly engulf the world. As the animals finally drew close enough for the man to feel the heat of their breath upon his neck he wondered: did they not know that their heat would take them also? Did they not know that a song once sung cannot be forgotten, for it remains, not only in the ears that hear, but in the stones and the trees and in the ever changing ripples on the pond? The man knew that he would not escape, but he also knew that this moment would live on, in every stone, in every ripple and in every leave of the forest which was now beginning to burn uncontrollably.

Photography by Charlie Ellis.

… to awaken, so suddenly, was my misfortune. What if I had been allowed to slumber, to recline in lazy meadows, drinking in the intoxicants of dusky, lonely evenings, and only then to slowly reengage with the world, what then? How would this have ended? I keep my distance now, slyly evaluating my companions, their manners of dress and of song. Where have they been, and in whose lands were their dreams made real? There are so many, and yet they seem as one, moving together, gloved hand holding gloved hand. And when they embrace it is as if a shadow has found its maker. And where am I? Where is my embrace? I know it too well: it is reclining in lazy meadows, where the sounds of the insects, and the owls and the sea are enough to keep one intoxicated, beneath the penumbra of joyful slumber.

Photography by Christopher Burns.