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...because there is no room for peace and quiet in your life any more. There must be music on a big screen screaming at you while in the supermarket like you are at a concert venue instead of just quietly going about your business shopping for groceries; there must be music at your place of work repeating the exact same songs every day twice a day for the entirety of your working week for three months on end; there must be music blasting from a loud speaker at your job site annoying every co-worker and neighbour who doesn't like your music choices; there must be your own choice of music blasting at a volume to drown out somebody else's music; there must be music interrupting your ability to read in the bookshop you are trying to find a book to buy at; there must be music, there must be music, and it must keep playing so you can avoid that god-awful thing called silence, or peace and quiet, that you experienced once in your life and you were so traumatised by that you swore never to be subjected to that peace and quiet ever again.
I walked into the New World supermarket at 279 Wakefield Street, Te Aro, Wellington, and was subjected to John Farnham on, not just one, but two big screens, as though I was invited to join in and chant "You're the voice, try and understand it, make a noise and make it cleaaaa-earrr-earrr..." when all I was there for was to buy groceries.
I get that the Customer Service Representatives want to be able to enjoy their work environment, but my question is: How can they enjoy having the exact same songs played over and over without getting insanely sick of it? The other question, is if they work with people who have different music tastes, is it acceptable that one person be allowed to enjoy their work environment while the other suffers? We all have different music tastes, and to be honest, even I wouldn't want to be subjected to the bands I love day in and day out on an eternal repeat mode. An experience I had last year subjected me to Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath in a Wellington cafe. Great! I thought, Music I love. But it was so loud that I couldn't hear my own mother talking to me. This is what I don't get. How does loud music encourage customers to walk into a store?
In Wellington city, it is very hard, if not impossible, to find a retail outlet that doesn't play obnoxiously noisy music. Even libraries, those once-upon-a-time havens of peace and quiet, have become obsessively noisy in recent years. All I want is cafe to sit in and drink my cappuccino in peace. But no such luck. The city is all just noise, noise, noise, and more noise. When it tries to add music as a contrast to the noise, as a way of creating a sound environment that attempts to relax or bring joy to the citizens lives, it only creates more noise. Because now the music is competing to rise above the noise, and it all joins together in a cacophony of irritating, trauma-inducing, pain. That is what I am left experiencing in the city: Pain.
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When I started living in Wellington, back in November, I was walking through the city and had a spark of creativity. I immediately got my notebook out and started jotting down some notes:
The city was always falling. Down through its own debris. Chips of concrete, broken pavements, rusted metals, snapped pipelines; shattered glass from unused windows, crumbling brick from derelict buildings, the rotted blankets and bones from withered carcasses of the long-dead occupants whom the city forgot to bury. Every piece of it fell as though gravity was divorced from time, and all the city could do was fall with it, tumbling down in an attempt to rebuild by falling faster than the speed of decay was able to maintain. Slowly, piece by piece, each particle would reattach to its original place of construction, pretending as though it had never left, never once been the particle so eager to add more aeons onto an eternity of decay and rebuilding. But still the city falls. And still the inhabitants fall with it, moving in forever descending spirals. Ropes of thought without action coil upwards into the ever-diminishing darkness of past. Like ghosts inhabiting a space that no longer exists. For the last four months, between house duties, nursing a buggered knee, cooking dinners, and improving my relationship with the resident 12 year old who is fast becoming a teenager (all the usual stuff that other parent/authors do), I have been steadily plugging away at the idea that I envisioned as a short novel of no more than 20,000 words. Today, I completed a full draft of 28,400 words. I am really pleased with the outcome, but now starts the full editing and revision period. I'm usually pretty reserved about sharing unpublished work with people, but this work is a satire on city life and reflects on personal identity and autonomy. When I get it in a more finalised state, and my reading friend signs it off, I will welcome anyone wishing to have a read and give feedback. |
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