I've had a strange week - huzo'mine took off skiing Saturday nite and I packed up the kids and went over to my friend's place for spaghetti bolognaise and to watch the election results with her and another journo mate from 'back in the day'. On the way there my 9-year-old daughter Keziah asked what happens if it is a 'draw' - and I laughed and said that wouldn't happen. Mind you I also got lost in the backstreets of Northcote, ended up somehow in Ivanhoe and managed not to faint from low blood sugar. So suffice to say I'm not sure I was all neurons firing! I blame this on the damn "flu-oh-look-now-we-have-a-chest-infection-and-two-courses-of-antibiotics" vileness I had picked up.
But we finally arrived, the kids clinging to the notion that one day they'll be old enough to move out of home away from the crazy lady. I ate. And then I tried to digest the night's events as they unfolded all too quickly. No clear result. No clear result. I sat there shaking my head trying to look vaguely astute with my mates who knew all the candidates, their policies, their battles and their plans. Then I gave up because they are my mates and they'd know if I was foxing them. I have no game face. But a great thing I've found with journos is they don't mind at all if you ask questions. Even silly ones. Not my journo mates anyway. Just as well because I like to know things and I like it even better if I can be told something simply - preferably over a glass of wine.
So where did it go wrong? Maxine McKew summed it up beautifully - the ALP should have run the campaign on the fact that Australia is doing so well in the midst of that dreaded GFC. Then there's the whole carbon emissions crap. Sigh. So now it's down to the wheeling and dealing - when isn't it?
But that isn't really what I wanted to talk about at all.
I am still quite mesmerized by the radiolab podcast on Musical Language - you may remember it from the last post of mine. It talks about the music in langage, the sound of sounds. In fact if you listen to this episode you will be able to hear the sound of sound being made. Yep. I kid you not.
It got me thinking about people's voices. The voices I love. I'm not talking about singing voices - that is a whole other topic for another time. I'm talking about the everyday speaking voices of people around me. I've realised over the years I'm very sensitive to the tone of voices. I love Marcus' voice - that be huz - I can still remember falling asleep on his shoulder as a teenager as he read to me (It was The Hobbit) and feeling so soothed. If I had to choose an instrument to describe his voice it would be a cello. In fact if I think of my closest friends, male and female they all have voices that are low, rich and smooth. They have a warm timbre. I love that word - timbre. It does make me think of polished timber (I married into a family where the Patriarch was a cabinet maker - you burn wood, you build out of timber.)
When I hear the voices of my friends there is that zap of 'ah, that's you'. They of course have different 'grains' and hues but yes, there is a depth to all of their voice that warms me.
My kids have a different effect on me - their voices dance across my skin, lighter, brighter but somehow the sound of them feels right. It makes things seem right. They talk and their words flow into my blood and make my heart beat.
And then there's the laughter. The laughter is something else. That bubbles and bursts and erupts and cascades like a waterfall and makes me smile and giggle along with them. Keziah's laugh often makes me gasp in surprise at just how full of life it is.
It is music. Our music.
Like when I'm soaking in a chat with a good friend. The fantastic banter, the quiet asides, punctuated by plumes of laughter,the rat-a-tat-tat rhythm of someone you love telling you a story that defines their day or THAT moment when it ALL changed. The sighs and the smiles. And there it is. The gaps between talking. Those spaces when you both sit, holding each others hearts and don't need to say a word. Music. And on that 'note' - time to sleep.
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