Station Id:47283

By chance, I happen to fall upon a website that allows you to tune in to Cricket Australia.

And now, I discover the joys of listening to radio commentary. Let me tell you kids this is one of those rare little pleasures that one happens to tumble onto. Test match through a radio perspective is a strange mythical beast, I struggle to put into words how vivid everything seems. It is probably the greatest tool I have come upon as background to when I work.

It helps that there isn't an obnoxious ex-Indian captain telling us how he would do it; or an ex-allrounder whose collection of methaphors wouldn't exceed the number of fingers he has on one hand. The quality of commentary is so much better, and it isn't simply that they have to describe everything - that would be boring.

For whatever reason, sacrificing the visual implies you note the rise and fall of the commentators voices more clearly; at the same time the commentator also understands this. The two reinforce each other in a symmetrical merry go round, chasing each other on and on. The commentator also translate the emotion of the players better; partly this is due to the fact that one hears the noise the crowd makes - and let me say, crowds in Australia are superb, they applaud whenever a bowler gets a wicket and once again at the end of the over, for instance. Talk moves over the nature of the players, their movement, you hear the whirring of the air-conditioner as they talk about the heat and your mind makes images that reality could only disappoint.

These tiny flicks of atmosphere are almost totally missing from television coverage, don't ask me why. I feel so much more drawn into a game, even when its boring, you can feel the breeze they talk about or the slope of the ground as the ball rolls away. Your head is clear of most thoughts, and your mind opens up.

And the oddest thing of all - one feels more neutral and tend to empathize in a strange way. This isn't pantomime, no, it's a bunch of (mostly) 20 somethings attempting to snatch a piece of history for themselves under the knowledge that most of their efforts will be wasted. There is a heroism here of an ordinary kind, the best kind.

I feel more grown up, ain't that somefin' as the little girl delightfully yelled to her mother when she saw the rainbow over the car park?

A heavy nostalgia hangs in my head these days, searching for I don't know what, I spent 2 hours staring at the sky today with thoughts of my papers, friends, and family popping around, mirroring the shift of the clouds, duality to the power of too many. I can't see what's going on, but something is changing. Edges are smoothing, puffing away silently from chaos into order. 2 years of thought strained by the constraints imposed by academic discourse into a few pages of talk and numbers (but the numbers also talk only we give them their speech). There are no endings, only new beginnings, proclaimed Sir Bruce Dickinson. So all we are right now disappears in an instant, and then we are reborn again; what we end up is then a collection of beginnings besides the dust and bones, it is this that people remember, no? A delightful view, I urge you to consider it with care.

Hmmm, hmmm, hmmmm.