09 May, 2002
Long, long corridors. Many. Kilometers of sparse light and moist air. It feeds mushrooms, it covers walls with a soft and maybe even sound insulating layer. It gives me the creeps, but I can't help a touch anyway. If not, how would I know? So my fingers feel the indulgence of the otherwise hard wall at my searching pressure. Like a sponge. Though this spunge grow at walls of underground galleries, where millions of champagne bottles lie neck against neck to grow better and better. Dead yeast joins the wine in holy matrimony. A wine, that has already fermentated once more than the ordinary. Spins a yarn, ties together, this is where the good champagne begins. So of course these endless corridors are special. Their sound as well. With acoustics, that despite the kilometers, transfer the words of a speaker so easily into my ear as did he stand right next to me rather than many meters away. As he becomes silent, everything grows silent, around him, around me, again. Even the seemingly soundless has its own and other sounds, that some students from the school of art and design of reims may or may not have captured on their tapes as they the other day recorded the sounds of the universe of the caves. Maybe their sounds are like mine. Maybe I will look for the answer. Maybe I will instead imagine my own system of sounds from the caves, glued together, shortened, faded up or down or repeated into eternity with all the tricks and methods of those who master sound. A game that brings with it the temptation of play. Just like a child and champagne.