A sound artist, field recordist and researcher with a love for heritage sites, ruins and buildings at risk.


I’m here again. Have you ever put a song on repeat? I have right now. It’s a piano piece called Samba. I think I will learn it, I have the sheet music for it somewhere. And here it is again. The same song, the same feelings, another perspective. I am in a limbo of sorts, stuck on repeat, getting close to the fissure but never crossing it.

I was phoned yesterday by a gentleman doing a survey, he wanted to know, on behalf of my Masters degree, where I was now. What was I doing? What was my employment? His date was specific in fact, what was I doing on the 12th April this year? I wish I could have exclaimed that I was installing a sound piece for my exhibition. Perhaps that I was doing foley work for a games company. Or even more aspirational, playing piano in front of a large audience, something I’m always too afraid to do. Sadly, this isn’t the reality, and I know it isn’t expected to be. But it makes you wonder, and I guess the whole purpose of these surveys are to do that (as well as check if my university did a good job). But that day, the 12th April, I would have been at work at the temporary-yet-not-so-temporary pub job, and then driving to see my boyfriend in hospital. During the drive, I would have had similar thoughts to these right now. I would listen to piano music similar to this, perhaps even that song I mentioned, as I drove back from the hospital on the dark country roads. I would get home and need to write. But because I had thought so hard and exhausted my feelings on that hour long journey, nothing would come, and I would retire to the same cycle again, and end and begin each day the same way. In limbo.

I am listening to a piece called Limbo now in fact. If it is so easy to move on from Samba, perhaps it is easy to move on from purgatory too. The sun is still up, there’s some of the day left. It isn’t over. But how do you stand out when all you want to do is blend? I yearn to melt into the world around me. To be like dust, and fall through the cracks of time. I must be ready to move on, surely. What do you do when every thought of your future leads you to the same empty space inside your head? I have something to give. I found what that was a few months ago, but through the wearing of time I’m slowly forgetting it. I can’t forget it, I know it was important. But like that story you begin to write, or that melody pressing from your fingertips; if unfinished, it becomes lost.

I am back at Samba now, blending into my chair, forgetting myself.