An Aural Palimpsest.
But how strange and wonderful I think this is: his evening to my morning, his snow and ice to my cool but temperate wind - and the words coming down the wire, bouncing off satellites, and landing in my little room. I have thought up questions and sent them to him by email, and now I am checking my recording device. I shall make notes as well, but sometimes it is difficult to keep track.
Now I am clearing my tapes and, as I do, I listen to words spoken years long before, and immediately I am back there: in a sunny outhouse in Patagonia talking to a descendant of a person I am still writing about; or in an Art Gallery in Manchester talking to a member of the British Council; or in a small office in the cathedral square in Chester talking to a festival organiser. Snippets of a lucky life, I tell myself.
I listen one last time before I regretfully decide to record on top. But maybe, just maybe, some trace of each voice will remain, at least I hope so - like a vague fond memory or an aural palimpsest.