On a Tapestry of Sound

Despite the chill I feel at my desk, the heater roars, ineffectually, but steadily—mere white noise that I generally endeavor to ignore.  In quiet, thoughtful moments, it returns to my awareness, and in an odd twist of perception, it seems as if someone were playing with its volume as my attention meanders to and away from it.  Reflecting on that noise, I expand my awareness, considering the other oft-ignored stimuli in my ears—the tapestry of sound hanging in the background while I work.

By Luis Lima89989, via Wikimedia Commons

I hear my own keyboard clacking faintly as my fingers slide here and there, pressing keys.  Farther afield, in various unseen corners of the large space in which I sit, chairs momentarily creak or roll.  Someone taps papers together.

To my right, a printer revs up with a whirr, and I hear it churning out documents, each page landing with a gentle tick.  Moments after it finishes, some unidentifiable machine in the coffee shop’s corner starts grinding away.  Before my muscles can start to ache with tension against the unpleasantness, the clamor stops, replaced after a while by the musical clinking of glasses being jostled together.

A soft creak emerges on my left as a student opens the nearer door leading to the vestibule, followed moments later by a louder “swoom,” like a great inhalation, as another student broaches the door on the far end of the same area.  My opposite ear hears a metallic click and snick, then a more generic thunk as some sneaky person uses the stapler at the front desk and sets it down, then departs with nary a tramp of a foot or a swish of clothing.

Through this mesh of sounds occasionally comes the scrape of shoes passing over the carpet by the doors, as well as the tapping—near and distant—of footsteps on waxed tile, varied with the intermittent squeak of tennis shoes or the slide of a foot—a susurrus like someone practicing soft-shoe. These are joined in some cases by the jingling of keys with each step, by the hum of a briefcase or bookbag rolling on wheels, or by the high-pitched “cling” of something metal striking the barricade around the atrium overlooking the library.  

A regular, percussive rhythm enters the room, joined shortly by a set of footsteps and the harsh, staticy jangle of indistinct music pouring from poorly insulated earbuds.  I give the student a minute to settle in, a chance for him to do the considerate thing and drop the volume.  Under the “music,” I listen to his steps, the roll of a chair, the plunky-creak of him sitting.  Moments later, the metallic beats fade away, leaving only the usual ambient sounds.

A woosh accompanies a small group of people who slowly tap their way into the room, one voice chattering above the rest as a student ambassador guides the prospective student’s family around the building.  Above the ambassador’s voice, and above the sharp, steady ripping of paper from a notebook, the familiar tones of an instructor carries from the far corner of the room where she conducts her class. Elsewhere, someone’s foot drums a quick rhythm, then stops just as suddenly as it began.

After the tour group passes, quiet voices continue to murmur here and there.  A laugh rises momentarily like birdsong above the forest.  For a moment, all fades to unexpected silence…

Then, a pair of coughs.  The symphony of sound resumes: The sibilant slide of a coat sloughed off of shoulders.  The quiet thump of a book set on a counter.  A ringtone, sharply cut off.  Approaching treads followed by the grinding of the pencil sharpener just yards away.  A high-pitched thrum, signaling that someone has activated the automatic door.  It admits quick, clicking footsteps and the faint whizzing of a bookcase wheeled along behind.

All the various sounds weave together, creating a tapestry of space and activity almost as clear as sight.  And through it all, though I still sometimes tune it out, the heater’s fan roars on like the din of a distant waterfall.