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While I like my read a fair bit, I think an accent might bring a little more dynamic to the piece. So I'm looking for someone who can take the feelings and inflections that I've done in my version, but bring a new texture to the piece with his/her accent. I'm looking for a performance that's similar to mine -- one of curiosity and interest in the beginning that gets ever so slightly tinged with a sadness towards the end. 2017-07-10 20:13:22 GMT 2017-07-17 13:00:00 (GMT -05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada) Yes (click here to learn more about ) Closed 22 22 5 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 2 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far. Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 20 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 20 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
• Audio files must be delivered via FTP/Dropbox/Google Drive/cloud
Instead of hands, though, it was the walls themselves that tracked the passage of time; the first floor counting hours, the second, days, and so on, up through months, into years, into centuries.
Moving upwards in the building, from floor to floor, you could feel the relativeness of time, the slowing of its passage. A guest once asked why the top floor didn’t seem to move at all, and the machinist said that it was because the top floor tracked the passage of millennia, rotating its walls only 3 inches a day; that 1000 years would pass before it faced just this way again. Whatever you saw as you looked out the window now (the town you had grown up in, the ice cream parlor opening its shutters for the after-school rush, the priest outside the church fumbling for his keys, a man selling hats on a corner) all would be long gone, centuries gone, by the time the top floor window cast its view once more this way.
The machinist saw the house as his ever-shifting view of the world around him – the windows revealing different glimpses into the constantly revising and changing world outside, minute by minute all spinning around the place he lived, his house the center of so many orbits, counted out by the walls that surrounded him.
But to me there was always a feeling of slipping away when you were inside the house; the things you saw out the windows were only visible for so long, before the walls would rotate them into obscurity. There was no reversing the eye of time, so you always felt as if you were losing something. as if nothing could ever be held onto long enough, firmly enough, to protect it from passing out of sight.
I met a woman, a seamstress in town, who said that the machinist misconstrued the tracking of time for his ability to control it. She said, time is like light and like air, there are no clock hands big enough to hold it.
There are no hands big enough to hold onto time.
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