I sit alone in my room typing this entry. The distant seeming sound of the air conditioning is high and steady. It's white noise. It's like the sound of television static turned down so low to that
just barely audible level. The jarring introduction of the metallic grind of a circular saw, and it's subsequent introduction to wood give me a jump, as I had been eyes-shut, meditatively still. The saw is loud. It's just behind my house less than twenty feet from me, muffled by the walls, wood plaster, and shingle. With an abrupt start it then crescendoes rapidly, the high pitched grind of metal and machinery, culminating as it strikes substrate, immediately lowing in pitch, still near steady, but with the slight oscillatory fluctuation of organic matter laboring against the cutting blade. As it tears the final fibers asunder it again crescendoes in pitch and timbre, before slowly dying to nothingness.
IAN
