The Speaking Machine (Dictaphone)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Reverend Goss’s study.
Smells of old paper and ink.
A half-eaten scone on a chipped plate.
And on the desk, under a film of dust in the 3:30 light…
A speaking machine.

[Verse 1]
Dictaphone, Model 7. Black metal casing, rusted at the seams.
A brass recording horn with visible scratches.
The advertisement from 1923 called it 'a business machine for the modern office.'
A wax cylinder sits on the spindle, pale and silent.
I find the hand-crank.
The mechanism is cool to the touch. It turns.

[Chorus]
My dictionary report is ready.
I speak into the horn, and the stylus cuts a groove.
A spiral of my own voice, etched in wax.
Petcock: a small drain valve.
Assay: to test the purity of an ore.
Pococurante: stylishly indifferent.
The wax spins. My breath becomes a physical thing.

[Verse 2]
The user manual, from 1920, explains the shaving process.
'Turn the crank slowly to avoid damaging the stylus.'
You can erase the old words and record anew.
But can you erase them completely?
I think of the parish secretary, the one with no name in the records.
Did she record sermons here?
Or private thoughts, now just a whisper buried in the wax?

[Chorus]
My dictionary report is ready.
I speak into the horn, and the stylus cuts a groove.
A spiral of my own voice, etched in wax.
Petcock: a small drain valve.
Assay: to test the purity of an ore.
Pococurante: stylishly indifferent.
The wax spins. My breath becomes a physical thing.

[Bridge]
And then, playback.
The hiss is loud, like the sea through the window frame.
And beneath it… my own voice.
Distorted. A ghost from three minutes ago.
Echoing against the oak-paneled walls.
Saying my own words back to me.
A machine that remembers.

[Outro]
The cylinder stops.
The report is finished.
The experiment is a success.
The speaking machine falls silent.
But the groove is there.
Waiting.