October 1, 2009
Thursday, 7:20am
Bright morning sun, crisp yet warm air
Canoe Pool
Newcastle Ocean Baths
On the Pacific Ocean
Newcastle, NSW, Australia
I’ve nearly got the pool all to myself this morning. The breeze is persistent but gentler than yesterday.
Waves tumble and splash all around me. The sound bounces off the rock wall behind where I sit, giving the impression of an island.
To my left, they are renovating the car park—which is I think a flowery, Australian way of saying parking lot. These cars enjoy themselves at the park.
Beep-beep-beep of a backward-moving truck. Muffler exhale.
Generator drone.
The seagulls are drowsy or have let bygones be bygones and possess a quiet sortof cheerfulness in their chirping.
Now I’ve got the Canoe Pool all to myself.
People pass on the footpath behind me occasionally. I hear their sandy footsteps and hold my breath—hoping they don’t stop.
A backward-moving truck. Bass rumble motor. Muffler exhale.
To my right, a more distant construction site produces a dim huming drone. Sounds like a cement mixer endlessly rolling and rolling and rolling on its truck bed.
Hammering. Knock knock knock knock.
The two construction sites improvise a bit. Is this the song of progress?
To my right, they sound to be dealing with steel.
The two men who were earlier messing around with strange benches in the pool return to take them away. I can’t tell what they are chatting about, but they don’t seem to mind shoving benches across the sand pool and then having to hoist them on their shoulders at this early hour. They do, however, sound like these water-logged wooden benches are heavy.
Seagull crowing.
Car park hammering.
Generator drone changes pitch in an ever-so-slights upward register.
Hammer-Hammer (faintly).
The drone from the right side construction site tries to overpower the sea. The sea almost languidly abides. Seagulls refuse to be silenced.
Hammer – Hammer – Hammer – Hammer
I think that because the right construction site is at quite a higher elevation, its sound is reflecting more intensely off the earth’s dome, and I am not entirely convinced that this is an illusion.
Backward – Backward – Backward
Backward – Backward – Backward
This truck is traveling or slowly. Definitely backwardly.
Loud ocean crash suddenly on the rocks.
The men return with a third, laughing.
Shuffled flip flops clear the curve and keep walking. Other people pass soundlessly behind me.
The men are loudly shuffling through the shallow water.
Yeah?
They’ve made the third man carry away the last bench. His flip flops clap with an intentionality I have not yet heard in all this time of documenting soundscapes.
Construction drone, though I’d rather focus on the oscillating ocean.
Chatting seagulls.
The two men struggle from near the big pool with a heavy piece of machinery—grunting and belaboredly shuffling. “Should have brought a skateboard.” “Yeah, I was going to say that.”
Hammer – Hammer
Sandy footsteps.
Seagull crowing.
“Good morning,” sings a woman walking with a man wearing a sling and a scraggly little dog. I reply: “Yes, beautiful.” She says something about: “Wouldn’t be dead for quids, would-cha?” to which I somewhat confusedly respond “Nope.”
You couldn’t pay my to be dead?
Certainly not at the moment.
The surf is gently rolling n now, its rhythm nearly matching a resting state of inhale-exhale such I am experiencing now.
Couldn’t pay me. I’m breathing with the sea this morning.
A seagull sends forth a low craggle before expelling a higher chirp several times in a row. Sounds like it’s being coy.
This truck is moving backward once more and emitting tiny bursting peeps before it does so. Then a long exhale before the generator roars back into action. Had been quiet over there for a bit, but no more.
The sea follows suit, and roars a bit louder as well. Waves crashing on the outside wall of the canoe pool.
A whistle.
I’ve arrived at the bottom of the last page of this notebook.
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