Window Women Skip to main content

Featured

You're Nobody's Producer

The glow of the old school CRT monitor cast an almost sacred light on our faces, and later the Philips TV, the screen for a digital aurora in the box-room. I remember the specific thrum of the PlayStation, the click of its disc drive, and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sequence of button presses as I meticulously layered beats and melodies. This was for his GCSE music project, a task he’d presented with a shrug and an almost imperceptible plea for help. He didn't do or say much; he rarely did. He just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest on the floor, watching me, a silent, still observer as I sculpted a rudimentary track from the limited palette of an early 2000s music creation game. His presence was like a barely perceptible hum in the room, a quiet witness to the genesis of something out of nothing. I remember thinking, in that precise moment, that he was involved. Not creatively, not actively, but his quiet watchfulness, his unblinking gaze, felt like a silent endorsement, ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Window Women

The city thrummed with a tireless energy, a symphony of movement and noise, yet it held its quiet, constant observers. Behold! The window women of the city.


They were everywhere, yet nowhere, solitary fixtures in ornate sills and stark modern frames. With mugs of steaming black coffee clutched like secrets or delicate teacups resting on knees, they watched. A woman with silver hair, her elbow propped, gazing down at the morning rush. Another, younger, sketching blurred figures on a pad, her eyes darting, absorbing. A third, perhaps just dreaming, lost in the shifting patterns of light on brick.


They saw the hurried footsteps of the morning commute, the fleeting shared smiles between lovers, the solitary delivery truck winding through narrow streets. They were witnesses to micro-dramas, chroniclers of the city's breathing pattern. Their gazes were long, discerning, soaking in the mundane and the magnificent, all from their elevated, silent perches.



From their windows, life unfolded like a silent film, soundtracked only by the distant hum of traffic. They were the city's quiet heartbeats, providing an unseen anchor, connected by the invisible threads of collective solitude. They were the city’s eyes, and through their watchful, tranquil gazes, the city truly saw itself. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular Posts