Marimba

 

Rain begins again its random intervals of percussion on the decking. The beats become a blur of wash, harder and harder, an orchestral seethe increasing in volume and strength. Watery film on the planks collects and absorbs the downbeats, spreading effect louder as the downpour gets heavier. Very soon the sound of rain upon wood will become a uniform roar, only wavering softer or louder as the wind lets up or gets stronger by minor degrees. My attention to the acoustics of wood has been enlivened by listening to the marimba, played at the wedding this weekend before, during, and after the ceremony. The fine scene by the riverside was settled by the gracious sounds from smoothed panels of the marimba, cool and delectable in the air. Here at our hideaway in Kennett River, the day after the wedding, the dreamy after-effects of good prosecco and a night of celebration and dance floor in the Wye River Store, is to listen yet more closely to the sounds of timber, the timbres of which are innumerable, occurring unnoticeably at any time. Unless I think to notice them by a conscious act of the will. The tiny falling fronds of eucalyptus that crash on to the decking slap into the rainy timber, their hard centre and swish leaves, over in seconds. The creak of the trees themselves, taller than the house, has undetectable origins, deep in their lively core. Bark rattles loosely against trunks. A branch snaps and plunges into branches below, to dangle or thrash until the wind subsides, and eventually even the rain. The calm of subsidence brings out other sounds. Lizards tap inside hillocks of sticks. Indetectable is the click of bird claw on tree branch, come then gone, the sensational search for food. Subtle crunch of animal feet over ground twigs. Hard to believe how these lithe columns of timber, swaying against themselves, could end up as clattering driftwood, disintegrate in a bonfire, or worse. They push millions of leaves to make storm sounds, impossible on a funky marimba, even in a fair breeze. Marimbists, maybe, maybe not? Walking with a stick along the paths we let ripple it along a fence, or tap at objects with our fortunate grip on reality. Inside, my feet stepping up the wooden stair quicker or slower take the marimba path, the beat to any kind of improvisation, the start of a tune, a tune that may walk which-way into any room. Preparation for dinner is a sinfonia of chopping block, slicing of avocado and quartering of pear. Chairs scrape crosswise on floorboards as chatterers arrive to sit for the meal. The peppermill clomps along the table. I could start dreaming of the other instruments, the electric guitar like unto vehicles taking corners of the Great Ocean Road. Or the bass guitar, with its on-again off-again registers, like the old fridge in the corner. For now it’s touch wood.