This Air Is That AirThere are plans afoot to begin taking tool to the rooms where the speakers reside, so as to better accommodate them. The hope, eventually, is to tidy up all the slouching piles of media into a small, slim box, and have that instead be the main driver of music in this place. I will miss the media, I think. Well, somewhat.
At present, the reproduction equipment is making good the work of Guillaume di Machaut, penned some seven hundred years ago and brought carefully back. Outside, the world is spinning down into dark skies and frosted breezes, light shards of ice carried in air. In here, it is close and warm, with occasional rattlings from the storm glazing when the playful wind wants in.
It is music papery and ancient, drawn thin from a place that is both joyous and sad but exults in both, bouncing down through the years as an echo, easily lost in the corners, best found with a candle held in shaking hand. The light is low, and the music pours down from the paper cones, dripping and tumbling over books and other leaves, splashing and churning at the kickboards to move smoothly out along the long lines of the floor, small eddies set behind the plain legs of the table.
I may need to dig an onion tomorrow. We shall see.
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