Sound and Vision, June 3rd 2010

Some years ago, I crashed the apple of my dad’s eyes in a curve…shiny, silver, sporty…Hadn’t it been for the multiple airbags and safety gadgets, I’d have been very badly hurt…or…I stopped wondering.

The shock was so violent that I couldn’t hold onto the stirring wheel. Spun and jolted, my vision turned black and white, I could hear metal being crushed, airbags popping like gunshots through broken glass.

I heard David Bowie, Sound and Vision, on my playlist.

“Don't you wonder sometimes

'Bout sound and vision

Blue, blue, electric blue

That's the colour of my room

Where I will live

Blue, blue

Pale blinds drawn all day

Nothing to do, nothing to say

Blue, blue

I will sit right down, waiting for the gift of sound and vision

And I will sing, waiting for the gift of sound and vision

Drifting into my solitude, over my head

Don't you wonder sometimes

'Bout sound and vision”

I often think about this song, it often springs back into my head, a sound or a sight usually triggers it. And I feel like I’m bouncing on the rhythm of the song. Happy or sad.

I often wonder about sound and vision, in this town it’s all about senses, I feel like I’ve been turned into an over-sensitive sensor. Good or bad.

Shutters left open to let wisps of air come in. Nothing to do, nothing to say.I lay down on my bed, hoping I could curl up under a blanket, but it’s too hot for that, so I lay flat on my back with nothing to hide under. Sounds surrounding me…moving further away as I drift away, moving closer, louder, taking me out of my torpor, accelerating my heartbeat.

Sounds of ventilators, women’s high pitched voices, telephones, taxis’ horn, nearby TVs, far away vallenato from the bars outside, men singing, shoes clicking on the pavement, sometimes drops of heavy rain dripping on the patio's floor, street vendors…

Street vendors are known by their voice.

There is the big lady with her bright clothes and handkerchief tied around her head, sparkling eyes, hoarse but mischievious voice, selling pumpkins, watermelons, onions and pineapples.

“ Hay ahuyamaaa, patillaaa, cebollaaa, piñaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!”

There is the old little hunched man, shivery and tired voice, selling avocados.

“ Aguacate, aguacate, a mil, aguacate, aguacate, a mil, aguacateeeeeeeeeeeeee!!”

There is the young fast paced man, youthful voice, not burned by yelling yet, selling coffee with his thermos and Styrofoam cups tower. “Tinto, tinto, tinto!!”

There is the stocky man, deep and proud voice, wearing his Jamaican hat, selling mangos and limes.

“Mango, mango, limon, limon, limooooooooon!!”

All chanting what they have, stressing on the last letter of each product for a few long seconds.

Instant advertisement.

Pushing their trolley in a rattle, they move from street to street, their voices fading in the distance. Then you hear “tinto” and the fast paced man stops, arms himself with a cup, poors hot coffee, adds sugar, stirs it, takes the money, blesses the buyer and goes.

“Mango” and the Jamaican hat stops, wields his machete, peels the mango, cuts it, takes the money, blesses the buyer and goes.

The gift of sound and vision, from my bed, in and out of my afternoon nap’s dreams, I wonder sometimes…why this song follows me like that.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IJsAuUgSgc

Peace, sound and vision to all