put the needle on the record or ong, plong, kerplinky, plong

The imminent BLDGBLOG reports on a project that illustrates the amazing precision and focus that can be attained with laser-cutting techniques, with audio records scribed in a low-fi manner over disks of wood, and then departs into the author’s signature expansion—a flight of fanciful speculation that carries the idea to a certain and inchoate conclusion, with landscapes imprinted and the soundtracks of everyday objects amplified though an ultra-fine stylus.

I think this is pretty keen—I’ve always held a secret though unscientific conviction that every sound, from whispers and footfalls to bangs and other knalls, is preserved somewhere in an atomic memory—sort of like the growth rings of trees or the back-formations of the valleys and mountains where one can, with some causal algebra, solve for the factors that led to the present state.  

to market, to market

Though the superlatives of commerce are always a bit subjective and demands on definition, I was surprised to learn of a fully-qualified contender based in a tiny Swedish village, not far from Malmo, and with a massive caravan-park, a destination in its own right. In any case, the supermarket that offers everything under the sun is significantly larger than the traveling-mats of Star Destroyers that linger, sweeping across the screen for a few moments, is located in a place called Ullared (the Swedish term for a populated place is tätort, like the German Tatort that usual is translated as “crime-scene,” surely a false-friend) and is called Gekås, a continuity of the trend of Swedish discounters, attracting consumers from Scandinavia and beyond. Shoppers queue up in lines a hundred metres long before opening time and orchestrate holidays around this draw.

engadine-ga-doo and further

Though there’s a lot going on besides and notwithstanding my laissez-faire approach to crafting plans—although there’s barely a shade’s difference between preparation and spontaneity since both approaches aim for the same happy outcome, I always feel guilty about been thrown into a much-deserved vacation-mode—especially one long deferred.

Nonetheless, I am very excited about our up-coming adventures, south through Switzerland, transiting through the valley of Engadine—Rhaetorian, Romansch for the Garden of the River Inn, and beyond to Lake Como across the Italian border. Right now, I’m gathering facts and trivia, which has always proved a good gateway for further learning. It might put ambition and expectations off the mark a little, studying historical context and celebrity, and create toy kingdoms all stacked together, but I tend to think that our vacations deliver just that, living up even to prospects that cast away realities and contingencies of time and distance.

sunday drive: hofheim in the taunus

Once again driving to my workweek apartment, and hardly needing to use my car during the week and so intent on combining errands and excursions but I hope not unreasonably so, I tried to explore a bit of the environs along the way and especially the lesser known attractions that we might not have the chance to see together. Not far removed from my destination, I came upon the town of Hofheim am Taunus, a bedroom community bridging the metropolises of Frankfurt and Wiesbaden and the immediate neighbour of Eppstein, but since it was late in the day and the weather threatened storms, I saved touring the ensemble of the Altstadt for another time and sought out the remote Bahá’ï House of Worship (Haus der Andacht, after its Arabic name for the dawning-place of the remembrance of God).
This edifice is one of only eight “continental” houses and the only one for the faith in Europe. Though the setting was completely inviting, I learned (and would like to learn more—I don’t feel competent to say anything about the denomination but, and surely this is a gross over-simplification, in some ways they are like a Persian version of Unitarian-Universalists) that the parishioners held their services on Sundays, just about the time I arrived and did not want to be intrusive.

Maybe I ought not to be so shy. The location proved to be peaceful in itself and persuasive of meditation, with a notable, receding view of the busy skyline of Frankfurt and dozens of meandering trails. I thought it might be easy to keep my bearings, rambling downwards, but the major landmark was quick to disappear over the top of the hills.