Dated: Circa ‘94
Prelim notes: This sounds like a recording of a recording. Like one device speaking into the ear of another across a dark room. The whirring static and the sudden distortion of feedback is reassurance that life is revealed here in analogue.
0:32: ‘They say that the misrepresentation of the artist’s intent is part of the interplay and the process of true art.’ … ‘ I don’t think I’ve ever heard anybody say that.’ … ‘Well by they I mean me, babe.’… The pause is pregnant with white noise. … ‘What I mean to say is nobody loves you until you’re dead.’ … ‘If so why all these fans? They hate me? They want me to die?’ … ‘You’re being hysterical about this whole thing. We had a pact.’
1:02: The noise that follows is the muffled sound of items shuffled in the bottom of a box. A sheet of paper is torn from a notebook.
‘But in the end what is there to really say’ … ‘What you have always said. But say it louder. Scream it into the abyss’ … ‘It’s too fucked up.’ … A ballpoint pen scratches out a few lines over the surface of the paper, but the sound is virtually indistinguishable from the white noise played across the recording of a recording. ‘No matter what I write down here they won’t get it.’
2:56: ‘No, they won’t. And that’s the whole point. The distance between the space that is the ‘I’ and the space that is the ‘you’. It’s a bridge that can never be crossed.’ … ‘At any rate, I can’t do this sober. I need to be numb.’ Several minutes of seemingly blank tape pass. The voice that continues afterwards is dramatically altered. Slowed to near incoherence.
8:47: ‘You only have to pull the trigger, very softly. This small movement is a bold statement. Ever forgotten it would be a shame to them all.’
Crying that heaves up from the diaphragm, like choking coughs, a lament that seems to envelope the tape recorder as if in a cere cloth of extra-dimensional proportions, because the tape itself
seems to shudder and reverberate through time. The terror of death is in that retching sound.
A stifled scream and the sound of a shotgun blast, echoing as though at a great distance. Silence. Six minutes, 55 seconds.
19:08: A handle is turned. A door moans softly into the room, its reluctant voice caught on the magnetic tape as a final sigh. Footsteps grow louder as they cross the imagined space towards the still-running device. The tape stops recording.
Tape 187 has been destroyed a long time ago. All that is left as evidence that it ever existed is this transcription, scribbled on a piece of graph paper, which I have used as an impromptu drawer liner for some years now. We cannot know the timbre of the speaking voices, if there is two speakers, or merely one, sounding off.