Every Single Noise In The World

Are.na's Arena is a partner column with Are.na, a platform for connecting ideas and building knowledge. For more Are.na editorial content, visit are.na/blog.

---

My roommate was out of town when the pandemic shut down New York City, in the terrifying days when hospitals overflowed with patients, and I wasn’t sure whether I should buy or make a homemade mask. I left my shoes outside the apartment; I disinfected my grocery items: cans, plastic containers, produce, the cleaning supplies themselves. It seemed like every moment of my life had a routine, a procedure; complimenting the rigidity I felt in my external world, I felt emotionally boxed in too, missing hangouts with my friends, poetry readings, yoga class, dancing in a crowded, smoky club.

When my roommate didn’t return, I converted her sun-lit room into an office and sat at my computer facing Allen Street. In the before times, our intersection kept us up at night. Cars honked at all hours, we could hear people tipsy-laughing on the street below, the low grate of skateboards rolling over concrete, a souped-up car pulled over in the no parking zone, four doors open, bass bumping. Whole groups of friends congregating outside of the 24-hour empanada spot. It was lit.

I never heard the birds until March of 2020. At the end of the work day, my neighbors would hang outside their windows or sit on their fire escape, banging pots, blowing whistles, and clapping for healthcare workers. It was a communal, ritual release. In the morning as the sun came up, I listened to birdsong over the Allen Street Mall sipping my coffee. It was eerie but eased my loneliness, providing a comfort I didn’t expect. It reminded me that I loved the natural world; it reminded me of all the absent sounds; it reassured me that the birds would still sing, and so could I. These replacement sounds created a new audio landscape, a new world in sound.