Serial Griever: Soundmarks

‘The term soundmark is derived from landmark and refers to a community sound which is unique or possesses qualities which make it specially regarded or noticed by the people in that community. Once a soundmark has been identified, it deserves to be protected, for soundmarks make the acoustic life of the community unique.’

Murray R Schafer

I can still hear the rhythmic ticking of his bicycles’ wheels, as he passed by the kitchen window.

I can still hear the obnoxious beeping of the smoke alarm, a Sunday morning ritual letting us know that breakfast was ready.

I can still hear the faint creaking of the garage door at night, as he stealthily returned his bike after work so as not to wake us.

I can still hear the gentle hum of radio 5, his whistling accompaniment to Billy Bragg, Lily Allen, or George Ezra.

I can still hear the ‘punctured bicycle on a hillside’ of The Smiths’ This Charming Man.

I can still hear the sound of his flip flops on the tiles - oh how they flipped and they flopped!

I can still hear his laugh whenever I laugh, still hear his voice whenever I speak.

I can still hear him everywhere.

I can still hear the sound of her car pulling into the pebbles on our driveway.

I can still hear the kettle beside her bed, which woke us up most mornings with the shrill crackling of boiling water.

I can still hear the yoga mat unfurling in the next room.

I can still hear the slight loving concern in her voice whenever I suggested making dinner.

I can still hear the gentle beat of a wooden rocking chair outside in mid-July when Scotland finally gets some sun. 

I can still hear her telling me to wear a little sparkle, it just needs a little something!

I can still hear her cheering when I do something good, or something she would be proud of.

I can still hear her everywhere.

The summer after my mother passed, I begrudgingly applied for internships. I didn’t want to, had no energy to, and frankly couldn’t think of a worse way to spend my time. Around mid-May, with a few rejections under my belt, an opportunity for summer research with the School of Music popped into my inbox. I then spent the next few months utterly immersed in the world of soundscapes, peat bogs, and Scotlandwell in Kinross. I was captured by the ideas of community memory existing through sound, with seemingly mundane noises holding emotional wealth for both individuals and the community. Meeting Isabella and discussing a collaboration re-tuned these ideas that had been building throughout my summer. We both share a nostalgia for the random noises that used to follow our loved ones, the soundmarks of our own families. The rhythm of their walk, the sound of them coming home, even the annoying noises like smoke alarms or noisy bedside kettles. In writing this piece, we brought the sounds back to life, playing them in our heads and digging through memories for a fuller, louder picture.

As a creative exercise this was really interesting, and we think you should try it yourself! It’s not high art poetry, it is not well-crafted imagery, it is a list of the real and loved sounds that exist within your community. We sat together, reminiscing over the sounds, laughing at the memories, and recalling the good times we spent with our loved ones. Grief is a funny thing. A lot of the time you find yourself crying, asking the universe ‘why me?’ ‘how is this fair?’, but it’s not like that all of the time. Sometimes you catch yourself smiling — a real, genuine, cheshire cat grin — at all the happy memories you have been left with. Writing this was one of those times. Also, it turns out that your parent becoming a road cycling fanatic at 40 is a more common experience than you may think!