First Generation MP3 Player - PoGo RipFlash
Solitary cycling creates a silence in my head. The void begs for sound – a hint of civilization.
Long ago, I rode with a first generation MP3 player in my chest pocket, hoping to capture some of its tinny sound. Its small speaker had to suffice for earphones would have separated me from the reality of the road. Favorite songs packed onto a small flash drive played without the mechanical aids of days gone by.
External sound from my pocket-size device was a distraction, a danger, an escape at a time when alertness was of the utmost importance. And even on a ride through the wilderness, wind stole the sound in swoops of rushing air. To prevent volume loss, the sound had to come from within.
Thoughts came and went, so fragile and fragmented in the din of traffic. Something less dependent on concentration was needed to pass the time.
As if from nowhere, a thought is conjured up of the sound of someplace else. Somewhere – when I was not listening – sound found its way into my mind. Was it a media message or a passing car speaker or an audio assault – unremembered – but later recalled from notes imprinted on my mind?
Infectious melodies entrench themselves in my brain only to be released from memory – playing independently, as if removed from a recorded source. Ethereal audition reproduced by electrical impulses sending signals through gray matter keep time with my measured breathing. My pedaling legs automatically fall into the cadence of the silently sonorous sound heard only in my skull.
Recollections of historical musical machines reflect awareness of the movement of my rolling vehicle. Wheels spin like old LPs, hubs rotate like spindles cranking an audio cassette, and pedal-spun chainwheels turn out tunes.
Each revolution of the wheel marks a beat, the clicking of a rotating chain claps in time, while feet tap repetitively on the pedal’s downstroke.
I recognize the nascent notes as a familiar song. For some reason, this song speaks to me. I hear the underlying meaning. It beckons me outside to ride – now – the time is now.
Lyrics lull me into reverie. Déjà vu predominates; I’ve heard that vocalization before, in another place, another time. We know one another; we are bound in unending sound.
Addiction grows. An invisible repeat mode winds the song from end to beginning to end.
A traffic light brings my bike to rest. On pause, my lips sync the song while cars whizz by, their engines purring in unison with my revolving self-contained musical world.
A clear, pure voice strikes chords of compassion, determination, celebration – each note representing a euphonic human spirit. Lyrics and music meld into metrical melody. I hear the words going round and round – drawing me to them – saying again and again:
“Oh there’s a whisper in the wind. Something’s going on among the leaves. Can’t put my finger on it, but it’s calling out my name. There’s no mistakin’ what this day has to say. It whispers in my ear and says: why don’t you come out? I’m waitin’ on you, waitin’ on you, – come out – I’m waitin’ on you, waitin’, cause the time is now, the time is now……. I whisper in your ear and say: why don’t you come out? I’m waitin’ on you, waitin’ on you – come out – I’m waitin’ on you, waitin’ – won’t you come out? I’m waitin’ on you, waitin’, cause the time is now, the time is now, the time is now, the time is now……… the time is now ….. the time is now…… the time is now…… the time is now…… the time is now…… the time is now……..”
Song by: Asha Ali (listen to the song below)
