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I have a small voice recorder that I use on roadtrips to list curiosities that I want to google when I get home.
By Kathy on 10.07.2009
children’s instrument, poor man’s ocarina, like a flute but worse.
By Dave on 10.07.2009
The thing that captures. A thing because who knew that we could take an object that would tap in to our own perception faculties, who knew that our perception faculties could be mimicked by technology to the point that we could show something we see?
By Josh on 10.07.2009
i learned to play the recorder in elementary school, its plastic tube a gateway to the musical journey i would follow for my entire life. its shrill squeal would be the siren song gracing my families ears for months to come.
By marc perreault on 10.07.2009
i played the recorder
By mo on 10.07.2009
He grabbed his microphone, on the ready to record what he heard. This was the interview of the year. He had been waiting for so long to hear from this guy. The guru, the source.
He couldn’t help but feel inadequate with anticipation.
By Ben on 10.07.2009
I slipped my hand into my pocket, discreetly fumbling for my small tape recorder. I pressed play and continued to listen to the man’s rambling. He went on and on, bragging about his master plan. Little did he know that I was going to have the whole thing on tape where I could broadcast it.
By misha on 10.07.2009
It’s ironic that the first instrument I learned to play is the recorder. And I really don’t know why.
By Sky on 10.07.2009
A child’s initiation to the world of music. Either they were an instant virtuoso at Baa Baa Black Sheep or a dismal, squeaking failure. But they still don’t DECIDE anything like they told us.
By Jordan on 10.07.2009
played this recorded in fifth grade that made me just sick. Everytime class womuld start I would dread the moment I would be required to stand and play my learned piece, which wasn’t learned at all. Goosebumbs. Sweats. Why can’t the moment just come and go without remembrance. No one
By Hannah on 10.07.2009
recorder …he corded…they corded…decoded…dark words that cannot be taken back, he thought – he wanted to record them for posterity, as they corded together in bed, their minds in discord, each trying to uncode the other’s silences and whispers. cords, and cords, bound them everywhere.
By pri on 10.07.2009
recorder…he corded…they corded…decoded…dark words that cannot be taken back, he thought – he wanted to record them for posterity, as they corded together in bed, their minds in discord, each trying to uncode the other’s silences and whispers. cords, and cords, bound them everywhere.
The recorder is a woodwind musical instrument of the family known as fipple flutes or internal duct flutes
By recorderMAN on 10.07.2009
it wasn’t any use.
to pretend like this wasn’t happening.
in the end.
there will always be letters and numbers.
tied to your seams.
corresponding with the moments.
you let down your guard.
By fdot on 10.07.2009
the steam grew faster.. the heat was intense. our bodies fitting together.our minds in complete harmony. and then we ran out of film
By ohpop on 10.07.2009
The dumbest kid alive is standing in the hallway, looking as if his eyes were made of glass. Neither here, nor there, always far away, touching every motion with his mind.
By jorken on 10.07.2009
Recorders are musical instruments that are supposedly easy to play, which is why they teach them to children in primary schools. I can in fact play two recorders at a time, by putting one up each nostril!
By hi on 10.07.2009
if i had a recorder i would bring it around with me everywhere and record random sounds, words, noises and mistakes. Life should be recorded because you never know what you will find interesting tomorrow or in five years. You might want the voice of a friends calling you stupid or the noise of you taking pictures with an antique camera.
By Tracey Heymann on 10.07.2009
I played the recorder back and listend to my voice. It sounded odd, as if I was speaking from inside a tube or something.
By Curtis B. Swanson on 10.07.2009
Recorder. The recorder is the one who gets it all down. Sitting quietly, slacks are better, the attentive tilt of the head, the hands at the ready, slim servants of the record, poised like predators about to strike the odd little keyboard that waits, used to the abuse that is about to be visited on it. All in the name of the record, the record that must be made, that will last indefinitely. Recorder. Ah, I don’t relish that job one bit, not for me the quiet stool, the weird little machine, the waiting.
By JFBookman on 10.07.2009
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.