It’s five o’clock in the afternoon and the sun is about to set when I follow the path up the mountain. I have been in Japan for exactly ten days now. In the forest I am surrounded by sounds that both excite and scare me, unfamiliar sounds in the half-dark that would serve as perfect beginnings for ghost stories.
During my visit to the Nanakura Dam last week, I was struck by the stillness and green colour of the man-made lake. It made me think of Kodama and Yamabiko and of the many trees and plants that reflect the words that are spoken here.
‘Sounding’ in science means to study the underwater depth of lake or ocean floors by transmitting sound pulses into water. Data taken from soundings are used to make maps of the seafloor. According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary ‘sounding’ can also mean: a probe, a test, or sampling of opinion or intention. Like a bat exploring its surroundings by sending out a signal and listening to the echo in order to find out what’s there.
When I get back home from the forest, I write my thoughts on blue post-its and hang them above my new working desk. The desk is close to the laundry machine; as I am writing words about sound and water, the studio rapidly starts to smell like soap.
