137 days since i last left this city. a friend sent me a recording of rain in london
12:30 am. the scanner whirs through 47 negatives
the cat sleeps on the keyboard at night. i wake up to a screen of gibberish and a warm purr
43rd night recording. 20 meters of power lines in the rain
67 degrees at midnight. the city never sleeps
3:47am. scanner whirs. 1978 poster emerges
32nd floor, north tower. the sound of wind through the fire escape
two hours left on vpn subscription
a man with a stick taps a metal pipe on the roof above my head every morning at 6:15. i have never seen him but i know he wears a white shirt. his rhythm changes sometimes
mahalleh park at dusk, 124th time walking its perimeter. a couple on the bench, holding hands over their masks
10:37 pm. city sounds too loud to record.
rainy season. 150 rials per liter of gas
6:30 am, street cats arguing over a bag of trash
21:30, another night of googoosh on repeat. i am drawing a map of this apartment with no doors
blackout in 47 minutes
12 hours to design a poster, 60 seconds to say i quit
a teacup. chipped at 11 o'clock
a bakhtiari carpet in the hallway. i have never vacuumed it
a woman on valiasr, crying alone
a street cat, white. left ear torn
mug of tea. seven minutes before dawn
78 degrees today. i have never seen this city quiet
an old fridge in the stairwell. humming through the night
khan daneshgah. 364 days since i last walked there
214 steps, no elevator. i carry my shoes
sand in the teeth of my scanner
the traffic on valiasr is always like this but i never get used to the noise of it. a motorcycle without a muffler, a woman's voice singing through an open window, cars honking at each other for no reason i can see.
the fan broke. i am listening to the city
28.6c in my apartment. the fan is not loud enough but i keep it on anyway because i like the sound of air moving through dust
17:43. train tracks under my window. 50hz hum in a.
khanegah steps at dawn
a man on valiasr plays "the sound of rain" from a phone speaker. i stood there ten minutes waiting for it to stop raining
the plugin expired again. five dollars for a month but i am not going to pay
3:02am. 1975 googoosh on repeat
six people at the park feeding the pigeons
36 degrees in the stairwell.
twenty-one stairs to the street
43rd day with no rain
sixteen minutes to the bridge
sixteen minutes until curfew
recorded the park at dawn. forty-seven pigeons cooing like a bad synth patch
276 days since the last update
a hundred degrees at 9pm
rain on the window now
nineteen minutes left on the meter
twenty minutes to record a kettle
234 hours of recordings. still haven't used the korg ms10
15:30, 28th april. three men in white shirts counting the azaleas on enghelab square
the kettle again at 2:17
43 days until my visa expires
twenty minutes until sunset
123 stairs to the rooftop. i counted.
snowing in shahrak-e gharb at 12:47
snowing in gisha but i can hear the traffic
seventy-two degrees at midnight
twenty minutes left on this vpn. i am not paying sixty dollars again
237 days since i last opened that folder
134 steps to the metro
the rain has stopped
43 days without rain
37c in my apartment. the fan is broken
recorded azadi square last night. forty people talking about the price of eggs
recorded the bakery at dawn. eleven minutes of dough slapping against marble.
the windscreen wiper sticks
38 degrees in gisha.
two hours in the stairwell. i recorded a fight through the door about a missing cat
rained all night. twenty minutes to walk to the studio in socks.
fourteen hours in the stairwell
3:45am. 86 degrees in my room
five minutes till they cut the power
twenty-three days until the next power cut
twenty-three stairs up to the roof
twenty-three steps up to my door
520am. two hours until the city wakes up
i was born in '84 when ayatollah khomeini's funeral was broadcast on state tv. i watched him fall backwards into the grave from my grandmother's lap. she said "he is gone now" and i thought about how her hands were warm through the cotton of her sleeves. today i recorded a woman selling watermelon in the bazaar. she called out the price for each slice, twenty thousand tomans, thirty, forty. it was like listening to a song with no tune, just the rhythm of numbers and her voice rising above the crowd. i wonder if my grandmother would have liked it.
sixteen hours of tape in two weeks
sixteen hours of stairwell recording
67 degrees today. i recorded the fan on my balcony
two hours of rain last night
rain on the balcony at 4:17
10:35 am. sun through the blinds. 22 degrees.
the neighbor's cat has no tail
36th floor echo
recording rain on plastic in the alley
sixteen degrees in here
a dust storm in july. i walked home with my sleeves over my face
rain on the fire escape
eight days until the next power cut
two months since last field recording
the street sweeper has a metal detector
253 days since i last opened that folder
437 stairs to the roof
thirty-two steps from the door to the elevator
29c. no rain today
recorded a cat purring in the stairwell. sounds like a diesel engine idling
the VPN bills arrived today. 28000 tomans each. i am going to have to take on more clients
seven minutes of rain on the window
six days until the new moon
37 degrees today in gisha. i walked to the market with a shirt
fourteen steps in the stairwell
toured the park at dusk with a microphone. recorded the ducks. they are the only ones still quacking in farsi
341 days since the last earthquake. i am still here
recorded the traffic circle at 3am
eight thousand steps today. rain on the balcony
recorded the elevator today. twenty-seven seconds of metal and breathing. the lady on floor five has a new perfume
the plugin failed at 2:47
27 degrees in the stairwell.
recorded the azadi tower.
kanoon screening in jomhuri. 8pm
fifty-one minutes of traffic on azadi. i will listen to this once before i sleep
thirteen minutes before sunset
eight minutes until the power goes
moharram is here again. i bought red roses from a child on a street corner. he said it was for his mother
the neighbor's cat has been crying for three hours. i recorded it from my window.
seven days since the last rain
a new plugin. twenty-two dollars. no toronto this time
fourteen days until nowruz. i am listening to my own footsteps in the stairwell from 2018. it sounds like a ghost
43rd day of 100-day challenge. recorded the bakery's alarm at dawn
41 celsius today. i can't sleep without the fan
fifty-one days until i leave. the VPN bill will be eighty dollars more
thirteen steps to the roof
the pigeons are back on my balcony
the apartment smells like old rain today. i haven't left since saturday. the folder has 425 files now. i added a new one last night. it's just static from my microphone touching the window. i think about leaving every time i hear someone in the hallway. i've never seen them but i know they're there. sometimes i wish i could record their footsteps, add it to the folder, let it echo in an empty room somewhere else.
friday night. traffic on valiasr
a neighbor's parrot at midnight
56 episodes in. she has just said his name
53 episodes in
26 days until visa interview
twenty-two minutes of rain on the courtyard
thirty-five degrees on my forehead
fourteen days until the next blackout
twenty-seven minutes in and the plugin is still not working. the kettle next door is on its third boil
rain on the window, 4 am. i think of my aunt in toronto, asleep next to her scanner
mold on the ceiling again. twenty-four hours to clean it up before the landlord comes over
28 celsius in october. the city is full of leaves that are not theirs
26th floor elevator. steel on steel. 3:47 am
a car alarm in shahid beheshti
just finished episode 27 of "secrets of yusuf selim." i recorded the street today for twelve minutes. no traffic, just voices and a dog
the rain was a drum roll when i left the house today. it's been two years since i've seen my mother's face without a mask. i walked past three shops selling flowers for sizdah bedar but none had hyacinths. i recorded the sound of water dripping from the eaves at 10:43am and now i'm here, making tea in the dark room.
tampon shortage at gisha pharmacy
recorded the bakery at dawn. 7am. four people will buy this
six days without rain
45 degrees in the stairwell today. i recorded the echo of my footsteps on the marble.
the neighbor's cat is in my kitchen again
twenty-seven stairs to the courtyard.
twenty-two minutes on the roof. twenty-four degrees celsius.
fifty-two degrees in the stairwell at 3am. i recorded the light switch
2019/11/30. 8:47pm. kettle whistle again
listening to shahin farhat on repeat for a week now. his voice is the closest thing i have to silence
104 degrees today.
28c today. sun through the window like a knife
eight hours straight on the stairwell
twenty minutes to go
recorded the fridge. 3:45am
rain on balcony roof at 2:17
recording rain on the metal awning
144 episodes in. she says yes
twenty-one minutes of traffic on valiasr. i should have stayed home today
the rain stopped at 3:17. i recorded the silence for eight minutes
two hours until sunset
three days since the last rain
32 degrees. windows open. traffic below.
twenty-three seconds of rain on glass
twenty-seven degrees in the stairwell
six minutes until curfew
174 days since i last opened documents
a man on valiasr selling old maps
listening to googoosh's "mimimosal" on a cassette recorded from the radio in 1975. the hiss is louder than the singer
150 episodes in. she has just told him to never call again
thirty-four steps to the door
10:37pm. 25 degrees. humid as a breath
twenty minutes until they cut power again
listening to "moshkelat-e shahrbanoo" again. fifty-three minutes of rain on a metal roof in chenaran. i remember the sound of that rain
the alley cats are loud tonight. i've recorded them before but never this many
142 days since the last update
recorded a street dog barking at 3am. seven minutes of concrete echo. i have no idea how to make this into music
67 degrees in my room.
26.5c in my room. the fan is broken
the kettle next door at 2:17
1230h. traffic on azadi still as thick as it was in 2009
rain on the window.
the internet went down again today at 10:43 am. i was recording the azan from the mosque across the street and lost exactly fifteen minutes of data. they will block instagram for a week or two until people forget why they did it last time. meanwhile, i've been listening to my recordings from last year when we could still use whatsapp. there's a moment on the tape where you can hear the azan start, then cut off suddenly. that was the day they blocked everything but voice calls. i remember sitting in the dark with my phone, trying to send messages to my aunt in toronto, telling her i was okay. she never got them. i wonder if she heard the azan stop on her end too. i didn't record that day, but i should have. there's a gap now, a missing piece of the city's soundtrack. i can't fill it in, but i can remember it. i've been doing that a lot lately - filling in the gaps with my memory, trying to preserve something before it's gone for good.
3am again.
20 minutes until curfew. still no electricity
the neighbor's cat meows at midnight. i have recorded it every night this week
rained all night. three dead in north tehran
the azadi tower in fog today
12 hours until the electricity goes
two hours until sunset. forty-three days since i last opened the folder
the stairwell echo at 2:17 am
three hours until sunset
57 minutes in. i recorded the elevator again
snow falling on the satellite dishes
recorded the elevator again. twenty-six floors. the motor whines like a tired cat
36c in the stairwell. 5pm.
i walked down shariati today with my recorder on. i wanted to get the traffic and the birds and the woman selling flowers but i stopped at the sound of a child crying. it was quiet but insistent and i followed it into a courtyard where an old woman was sitting alone. she looked up at me and said, "my grandson is in prison." i stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say, and then she just went back to her knitting. i recorded the whole thing, nine minutes and forty-two seconds of that crying, and now i don't know if i should release it or not.
127 steps from here to azadi square
rain on the balcony, 4:57 am
seven hours to make three minutes of rain
seven minutes to midnight
the dog next door barks in english
the traffic light has been red for five minutes
thirty-eight degrees outside
recorded the park at dawn. eleven magpies.
recorded the city at dawn
recorded the bakery at dawn again. seven hundred and twenty seconds of sourdough rising
17 degrees in the stairwell
fifty-two days without rain
40 celsius in my studio at 11pm
a mosque loudspeaker bleeding into a car stereo on valiasr
rain started at 2:17. recorded fifteen minutes before i lost signal
eight days until they cut off my internet again
twenty-two minutes of rain on the roof
the VPN costs twenty dollars a month now because of inflation. i am going to find a cheaper alternative
soundproofed the room in foam, 26 square meters and counting
603 episodes later he still spells persian like a tourist and i have things to do tomorrow
7pm, the fourth button
the other one is my grandmother's face on every screen tonight
my room, one window, eleven hours of foam
a field recording is one room and an hour and someone who was not home
november 2019, the internet went off
recorded at dawn and named it after the grandmother who is already gone
the apartment is sixty-four square meters and i have never measured it. recorded three rooms into one field tape, uploaded at midnight while the neighbor's cat walked across the foam
the foam absorbs the morning traffic so the tape breathes clean. i recorded four hours of silence and someone will call it texture tomorrow
one room soundproofed in foam for eleven years running
a valiasr apartment, eleven rooms, one working lamp
the apartment has three rooms and only one soundproofed. that is the quietest one
the second vpn is for the country that forgot i was ever there
the room has three layers of mattress foam and still rings like an empty bowl at 3am
my grandmother's photo scanned at night and her aunt in toronto archiving the pre-revolution one next to it
one room soundproofed in mattress foam for 260 square feet and three people to share
the neighbor's kettle, 2pm, six years running
the neighbor's kettle again at 2pm, louder than the mosque
the room sounds like foam. i spent three years making it quiet so six people can hear it on headphones in their bedrooms at night
the stairwell hummed at 5pm and i recorded eleven minutes into the wall
the folder called "documents" for six years and the coffee that never gets drunk
the recorder is on and i am still deciding what to record
one room soundproofed, the other full of my aunt's old photographs
the room is 14 square feet and i have called it an apartment for eleven years
gisha sleeps in quiet and the kettle boils on its own
field recordings for six people who are not listening
the documents folder holds four files and i have added another this morning. the fifth is the kettle receipt from toronto. nothing has changed in six years
the apartment sleeps two and wakes for the three of us.
the only good thing in this house is the one soundproofed room and its single ceiling fan turning at 200 rpm
the foam is 4cm thick and i have been quiet for eleven minutes
sixteen square meters of silence, one room soundproofed in mattress foam
a field recording of nothing, three minutes, released on bandcamp, six people bought it
gisha apartment, one room foam padded, six years of silence
the foam room stays quiet at four am for six years
aunt in toronto bought the whole album again at 2am
the folder waits for a departure that left the apartment empty and the city for six years
bandcamp released three tracks to six people at midnight. one of them is my aunt in toronto, who bought all three and calls it favorite album — albom being the only song she knows by heart
the fourth floor, the fifth window, my grandmother's hand at the controls
seven years of foam between my mattress and the wall. the kettle still sounds like a car passing on valiasr
a cassette of the stairwell from last tuesday
recorded for six people at 2am and released on sunday. six bought it, one is my aunt
episode 43 was the last good one and then he introduced his sister's husband at the end. i have my grandmother's photographs to scan and three of them need dusting
the room is padded with eight sheets of mattress foam and i recorded the ceiling fan at 180 rpm. they call it texture, buy six copies on bandcamp under a name that isn't mine
the room is soundproofed and the apartment is not and i have called it home anyway
the mattress foam is three centimeters thick and i sleep through the whole night
one soundproofed room and five walls of echo. i will record them all and release it to six people
my grandmother is on episode four of the series. she has been waiting nineteen years
nine am on saturday. the stairwell is awake before i put on my headphones
field recorded three months of rain into one afternoon at the stairwell. eleven tracks, 48 seconds each. my aunt called to say it is her favorite and i had not heard any of it
recorded the apartment in mattress foam at 2am. released it as a field piece on bandcamp for six people, one of them my aunt in toronto who buys everything
the room is 4 by 3 meters. one mattress of foam on the ceiling absorbs everything else
one microphone, one room, three years of kettle
the neighbor's kettle, 2pm, ruined eleven minutes of my quiet recording
the folder is called documents and i have updated it zero times since february
one room soundproofed with mattress foam and the rest is just the building apologizing
48 files, six buyers, one of them my aunt
one mattress thick of foam and the kettle still wins every time
the folder is called documents and it has held everything that was not happening for six years and still will. i opened it last saturday at 2pm and found one invoice from toronto dated three years ago. my aunt wrote in the margin that she reads every post even though no one else does. there are eleven files inside, none of them mine but all of them honest. this is what field recording sounds like when you record a room that never changes and still expect it to feel new. i named the album after the neighbor's kettle because it has been singing through the wall every morning at 6am for as long as either of us can remember, which in my case means forever
the recorder sat on the mattress foam for forty nights. it caught nothing new but six people still bought it
varesh-e tang shode, six people bought it, and one is her aunt in toronto
one soundproofed room for six square meters of apartment. the other five rooms are just excuses i tell my guests
603 days since the apartment was finished. the foam is settling now
three years of foam in the walls and i still hear everything from down the stairwell — my aunt drinks the same tea at seven in toronto while khoda keeps both vpns alive
the folder has 6 files and i have never opened the laptop next to it
the second vpn is the smaller lie, so i am not surprised
folder named documents updated quarterly for six years running, and the joke is permanent. i have not opened it in eleven days and am writing about it now
the neighbor's kettle through the wall, 2pm, six people will buy this
seven days of silence and three people listened
the folder is open but empty and the only thing in it is this post and the year
gisha at seven in the morning, folder called documents, six years of waiting for a day nobody booked
season two. 21 screens on the wall and a remote nobody ever picks up
the apartment is 64 square meters and the foam eats half of them so i have a house and a pillow
5 years. the same folder has held the same files while i have learned to live with it
three rooms, one soundproofed
ghavam be toronto, the only one who bought this
the stairwell again, 2pm, six people bought it
one microphone, one room of foam, six people and my aunt, all waiting for the same eleven-second phrase
the fourth microphone in the stairwell and still nobody turns it down
toronto aunt's card works, six bought
the kettle still boils at two in the morning
valiasr, the kettle at 2pm, eleven minutes in
the neighbor's kettle at 2pm through the wall
the apartment hums at 60 cycles a night
eleven minutes into the stairwell
googoosh would love this
the room i soundproofed with mattress foam, still leaks when the neighbor's cat jumps at 3am
13 years in. she has just learned to say khoda be dadam berese herself
the apartment soundsproofed once and the foam is still holding up
field recorded for three weeks in one room. fourteen tracks, ninety minutes total. the kettle keeps winning every time
one room soundproofed in mattress foam, 2014 to now
delam barash tang shode and i have never met her. that is all you need to know
folder open since 2013, six years of departure inside
the neighbor's ceiling fan at 180 rpm through three floors of drywall. i recorded the whole apartment in one take because who is home anyway
the sixth person bought it at midnight and called my aunt to tell her
shab, the third coffee, and she is still awake
the apartment has eleven rooms and i only ever enter two of them
aunt in toronto. she is the only one who remembers when the internet was slow
the mattress foam does the soundproofing. i just press record and wait for six people to notice
the plugin is on my phone now and i can hear the neighbor's kettle through two layers of vpn
the foam has a memory and i have eleven recordings in it. first one for toronto, last one for whatever is left of this apartment tomorrow at nine
delam barash tang shode at five and i stayed awake until ten
the foam is six millimeters thick but sounds like a cathedral
the apartment is quiet and the foam has absorbed eleven years
the room soundproofed in mattress foam for eleven years and still echoes like an empty apartment
the neighbor's kettle through the wall again. 2pm. i have known her for eleven years
the mattress foam ate three years again
season four dropped at midnight and he plays the older brother who never left home. she has watched every scene twice and i have watched my grandmother's photographs three
khoda be dadam berese, i am listening to the wall
one soundproofed room, one real window, and two people who have never looked out at the same thing
the room breathes at night. mattress foam, one inch thick
the documents folder on my laptop and the one on my phone have never agreed since 2016. i will let them drift apart again
field recorded for seven years and six bought it. that is the whole bandcamp thing
recorded at 3am in a room i have not really lived in for four years, where the mattress foam ate half the high frequencies and left this drone that sounds like a ceiling fan from space. uploaded it to bandcamp on a tuesday nobody remembers — six people bought it, one of them my aunt in toronto who is archiving pre-revolution ephemera at night, dar barish
folder "documents", updated quarterly for six years, still empty
three layers deep. one for the filter, one to hide my ip, one because i forgot which was which
three subfolders for six years and the same eleven songs since 2016
the neighbor's kettle through the wall and i have named it after my grandmother who had one too
the room is padded in mattress foam since before i moved in. i have never heard it settle so. forty-one square feet and a ceiling that forgets to echo back
seven people listening to my voice at 3am. one is my aunt. the other six are strangers who think they know her
the aunt bought it again. seven people now
the documents folder holds three files for a country that has never opened it, and tonight is shab
recorded eleven days in the dokument folder
43 episodes and counting, since february. he calls it a long season but i call it a long habit, and every week my aunt writes back with one line and three emojis she has not lost yet
bandcamp sold six copies. five are strangers and one is my aunt who writes at night in fengi and asks if i am okay
a window looking at nothing, 1980s carpet underfoot, one kettle at 2am, god's grace
my room is soundproofed in mattress foam, so i recorded eleven minutes of silence at two in the morning and called it "the apartment." the neighbor's cat walked across the ceiling twice during take three. there are forty-seven files now in a folder called documents, updated quarterly for six years running, though nobody has opened it since march. my aunt in toronto bought all six copies on bandcamp with her card that only works through the vpn and a friend in ontario who is an archivist of pre-revolution ephemera and scanned her grandmother's photographs at night to understand what she is buying. she writes long sentences because it is the one place where her sentences get long, watching a turkish dizai dubbed into persian with total sincerity while i sit here making field recordings no one asks for
one foam room and one folder called documents updated quarterly
the folder opened itself. i was not looking at all
one room soundproofed in mattress foam and six years of dust collecting on the speakers
the second vpn is working perfectly. i can hear my own voice from toronto and it sounds like a stranger
the documents folder has 67 files and i have opened exactly one of them this year. it is a photo of my grandmother holding a book she never finished
two foam mattresses give me three quiet rooms and a room of my own. i recorded the radiator at 220 volts on one channel for six people, hami listening
1407 days of field recording. i named it after the year i was born
the folder is still called documents but now it has eleven files instead of four
seven years of field recordings from a mattress-foam room and my aunt calls them sabah before i even open the window
six years and the card still works
the folder documents, updated quarterly for six years
dawn at 6am, recorded for an hour to a folder called documents. my grandmother scanned her photographs last night and sent them with a note that said everything was fine
the kettle, 3pm, and rain through the foam
the foam is eleven millimetres thick and it has caught the kettle's voice through three walls. i have recorded this twice, once for bandcamp, once for myself at night — sokoot — and nobody has noticed the difference yet
the apartment on gisha has one room soundproofed in mattress foam and i have recorded into it every day for eleven months now. the neighbor is a retired teacher named rahim who says my drone sounds like an old television and is right, he watches turkish soap operas with more faith than i have in myself. i make long pieces because short ones feel too finished and finished things disappear fast. today's file has three tracks: the stairwell, the kettle, and me breathing into a mic older than the building itself. my client wants it tighter but tight is relative when you are dealing with time zones and a folder called documents that updates itself quarterly for six years running without anyone opening it. i will leave the long version on bandcamp where exactly six people buy it. one of them is my aunt in toronto, archivist of pre-revolution ephemera and her grandmother's photographs scanned at night while watching dizi dubbed into persian with total sincerity. she sends a message every tuesday saying the sound reminds her of home and then forgets to send anything back until next week. that is the relationship i have built over two years, most reliable thing in this apartment except for the wifi which has a friend of a friend who runs a vpn inside my own vpn so everything comes out doubled and warm.
gisha nine months, still on the first floor
djinn has taken over the documents folder and now lives there rent-free, djin
past the national filter and into a vpn so a website does not know i am in tehran at all
recorded it in the one room that is actually soundproofed and called it acoustic. the other five rooms just echo my laptop fan at 3400 rpm
one mattress foam two layers three minutes to the neighbor's dog waking up
the foam has held for six years and now the neighbor can hear my kettle boil
six people bought the field recording and only two noticed the kettle. the other four were asleep
the foam does not soundproof the kettle, 7am daily, but it stays warm
the kettle says good morning in farsi every morning and it is always right about the one thing nobody wants
the neighbor's kettle through the wall, 2pm
43 episodes done. my aunt watches every one at 10pm toronto time with total sincerity. she has been doing this since 2009 and i only just started listening
a room soundproofed in foam. four years running and the other five are still just rooms
sokute 7am, kettle still
foam room now. four microphones hang over the coffee table like they wait for guests who never come and i call this delam barash tang shode every morning
the folder called documents has held six years of nothing for two