a standing transmission. golden hour, signal soft, pollen in the air.
field recordings from a city you have never been to but somehow miss.
transmission 01 / petal traffic
the light cycles from amber to red to amber. nobody crosses. the flowerbox bolted to the curb holds nineteen rapeseed stalks and a single bee that has been there for hours. it does not seem to be working. it seems to be listening.
somewhere a car horn happens. it does not arrive here. only the soft hum of pollen, a vending machine, a far away train. the petals shift one millimetre.
transmission 02 / tower lullaby
thirty thousand gallons settling. the steel shoulders of the tank cool by half a degree every minute and the bolts answer in tiny pings. the iron stairway has not been climbed since april. an antenna leans against the southern flange, broadcasting nothing in particular.
below it, an open window. someone is folding sheets. the radio plays a song that does not exist.
transmission 03 / pollen ping
nobody answers. the booth has not held a directory since 1998. the receiver is warm anyway. on the kerb a yellow petal lands directly on the metal cord and balances there for the full eleven seconds of the second ring.
the city does not pick up. the city is the one calling.
transmission 04 / elevator dream
the bulbs are warm white. row B is sold out. the carpet is the colour of weak tea. somewhere down the hall the elevator opens to nobody, hesitates, and closes again. you are not here. you have been here for a long time.
the vending machine plays a four-note tune for no buyer. it sounds like a window opening.
transmission 05 / blossom telemetry
the wire sags between two leaning poles. the crows do not move. they are not waiting for anything they could name. below them a parking meter accepts no coins. its red flag has been raised since spring. the asphalt is dust-warm.
a billboard advertises a film that closed in another year. the rectangle inside it is empty. the empty rectangle is the most honest thing on the block.
transmission 06 / sundown buffer
a small geranium in a clay pot lives on the fourth landing. it does not know the building is rent stabilised. it knows only that at 5:42pm the sun arrives, and at 5:51pm it leaves, and that this is enough to be a green thing made of light.
across the street a manhole cover ticks as it cools. somewhere a fan turns on. the broadcast continues.
transmission 07 / ginkgo interlude
the other ginkgoes on the block are still green. only this one is shedding small fan-shaped coins onto the sidewalk. it is a private weather event. a woman walking past notices and looks up and smiles at something the tree is not telling.
a fire hydrant on the corner sweats softly. the air smells of lemon peel and warm stone.
transmission 08 / signal returns to itself
the loop completes. the loop continues. somewhere on this block a small yellow flower is opening for the first time today and has been opening for the first time today since 2018. the city files this under "still happening".
the signal does not end. the signal does not begin. the signal is what we agree to call the part of attention that has nowhere else to be.