The Communiques of AnatomiesIt is always something to come home to the answering machine when it has something waiting. There are times when the things left there tend toward the mundane: wrong numbers chased without realization, confused mumblings, drunken, misdirected heat. Other times, the leavings sink to banality, hawking something or coyly requesting call. Kind voices come from loved ones, too, to be sure. The little purple light flashes merrily to make me guess at its treasures.
Sometimes, though, I am given a momentary invitation to another time and space. There is no message. Background noise bubbles to the fore, offering a tantalizing low fidelity glimpse of a random surrounding. There is often times a voice nearby, but not near; they are a little stronger than the mumble, but not by much. Sometimes not. Sometimes there is only unintended space, a span of little noises from someone else's life, left for me to ponder and accidentally delete.
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