Voice and phone

Car rides, commutes, rushing from the main campus to the college of business—there’s something about movement that facilitates thinking for me, <sigh> but it’s an inconvenient facilitation. With my attention being split and the time-crunch of being in transit, there’s not time or focus for deep, sustained consideration. But the fleeting, blinkering considerations are often so worth grasping. Looking over the captured thoughts, I often see my projects taking shape.

That’s me: the driver, the fast walker, phone pressed to their lips as they mutter incoherently racing and driving.

<laughter>

I, uh <cleared throat> find myself wandering when I talk into my phone. There’s a trust there, too. It’s a deeply personal space that I enter into when I find myself composing in the form of my phone’s voice recorder. Um, it’s just quick notes, right? Where I don’t—I can’t sustain too much thought on any one topic: there’s an upcoming turn in the road, a driver cuts me off <audible breath> and my thoughts turn or are interrupted.

There’s an impulsiveness to my speech that I haven’t quite grasped. It’s uneven and comes in spurts. Yet, I <tongue clicks> fill the silence, yea? I don’t seem to want it to end as my voice dies down in the silence of the car—maybe as I turn or lose my train of thought—I immediately try and resume. I’m not sure why, but the silence feels uncomfortable and I feel free to enter and leave this enclosed composing space that it makes this kind of wandering possible.

My phone is almost weightless in my hand: it’s almost absent. I feel the warmth of my arm bent toward my chest, the bend in my wrist to angle the object—and it almost feels reminiscent of evenings curled on the couch reading or watching TV—a comfortable position—but the phone blinkers out of my thought.

What fills my awareness is the movement of my lips and the gliding of my tongue. S’s and T’s fill my ears with sibilant and staccato sounds. I hold my breath in moments where my attention is being pulled and there is a tightness in my chest. I notice my limited range in volume: a consideration of the limitations of my platform. Volume impacts the quality of my recording. As casual and quick-capture as this feels, I know it has purpose: I will be sitting down with these recordings later to figure out whatever it was I was thinking <laughter> and so, I, uh, need to be able to hear it.

All that is to say, though, that what I feel myself attentive to is this composing with my body. The way my tongue slides across the roof of my mouth to make that hissing s that I hang onto for just too long, the dryness in my throat after 15 minutes past the last drop of my morning coffee, the way my diaphragm seems disengaged from this talking, the way the vibrations from my voice carry down my tie to the side of my thigh <sigh>.

One thought on “Voice and phone

  1. Pingback: touching [writing, writing] feeling | Thomas Passwater

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