I love crowded rooms. I love sitting in the corners of bustling environments, lounging on cushioned chairs with a cocktail on the table, a notepad and pen to hand, and a Dictaphone ahead of me. I love the slow burn of low lighting, stylish interiors, and walls of photographs and interesting objects. I love rooms of people, noise, art, and music. Congested rooms that record the velocity of life.
The Dictaphone might appear as an unusual device to cart around and isn’t usually seen on the tables of trendy hangouts. Nonetheless, it’s a good companion when these moods of solitude strike. Writers are funny creatures, after all. Largely introverted and voyeuristic, we spend much of our time lost within a secret world. So much so that sometimes it takes a genuine effort to leave. But for inspiration, when we walk the narrow fence between being introverted and voyeuristic, and extraverted and social, the use of a Dictaphone can be a great tool to capture the atmospheric thoughts that become lost between moments of disconnection.
I haven’t always loved sitting in crowded places alone. It didn’t seem cool when I was younger. In those earlier years when I needed time alone, I’d opt to go somewhere passable for an art and fashion student; vogueish fashion museums, art galleries, trending exhibitions, underground record shops, and vintage flea markets. Back then, my authenticity bubbled beneath the peer pressure of societal expectations and cultural norms, and although I never truly understood why being me was so wrong in the eyes of so many, I did try to shrink myself into small, labeled boxes. Thankfully, I never fit.
During those wonderfully introverted days when I’d lose time pandering to myself in London’s arty districts, roaming and musing in rooms of high ceilings and provocative installations, I’d feel an awe-inspiring sense of revelation. An embodiment of power that surged through me. The exhibitions would propel rockets of vision into me, provoking reactions, formulating ideas, and most poignantly, demanding to know when I’d be brave enough to be unapologetically me. In truth, having “me time” in these visionary havens was like going home after an exceedingly long time away in exile.
Nowadays, not only am I unapologetically, crudely, outspokenly - and some may say obnoxiously – “me” but I’m unbashful about being a semi-introvert who enjoys extended periods alone. My Dictaphone and I have seen each other throughout the decades. My first adventure with it was to take it to London’s Brick Lane. Brick Lane, for those who might not know, is an excitingly chaotic environment of overlapping cultures and lifestyles in the East End. When my professor assigned me my Dictaphone, insisting that I should use it to create a self-reflecting project, I had just lost my aunt Mae. The grief was incomparable and suddenly, I found comfort in the distraction of Brick Lane’s noise. To be too distracted to think or feel was an absolute gift back then.
Sadly, I no longer have those recordings. I deleted them once I was healthier in my journey of bereavement. Recording myself alone in a crowded room, slightly drunk and getting drunker, rolling bitterness over the hard lump within my throat, would have made a cathartic art project, just as my professor proposed. Today, most of my digitalized thoughts are happy, curious, exploratory, or indifferent. Some of the recordings are extraordinary to listen to because the disembodied voice doesn’t always sound as if it’s my own. The ideas sound foreign too; extraterrestrial and far-reaching. Sometimes, I just sit there stunned, listening intently, hanging off every word articulated. Sometimes the ideas seem too big for me to carry to fruition. Nevertheless, I always accept the challenge and execute it like a true matriarch.
All alone in a crowded room is where I sometimes long to be. Dictaphone. Noises. Sensations. Vibrations. Reflections. I love overcrowded rooms, sitting in the crooks of humming settings, with a creamy drink on the table, a notepad and pen, and a Dictaphone.
(Image via Bing.com)
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