A blind man visits the world's largest rattlesnake round-up to hear the sound of a stadium full of rattle snakes its 1-ton collection pen.

Consider my perspective. A noise illuminates a specific thing in a specific place. The dishwasher door slams and, in slamming, defines what’s out there and where it is. The effect is like a glance. Or let’s say a kid rings a bicycle bell. Now I know there’s a bike, and the fading ring traces its path, giving a hint of depth and dynamic to my two-dimensional blur. Other sounds are more environmental, less precise. The irrelevant buzz of electronics in an office. The panoramic thrum of distant vehicles. These don’t conjure images in the mind, not so much, and they certainly don’t locate things in the world very well. But their noise is out there, as generic and unfocused as “cars” or “traffic.” Call it color.

With the exception of music, sounds share one chronically frustrating quality. For me, they just refer. That’s their cognitive nature in my body. They point, name, and gesture to the unseen. They are as substantial, or unsubstantial, as a word.

But these rattles had more...


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