transistor zen

I purchased a Buddha Machine about a month ago at Bent Crayon. The Buddha Machine (or BM for short--no, wait, that's just gross) has been aptly referred to as the anti-iPod. You can't download millions of MP3s onto it--instead, you're stuck with nine preset snippets that loop over and over again, issuing forth from a single, cheesy speaker.

And I love it.

The Buddha Machine is beautifully and unashamedly low-tech. Its haunting sounds are drenched in crackle and hiss, bloops and bleeps clotted in damp graveyard soil. Its mournful drones seem to emanate from an afterworld of test patterns, emergency-broadcast signals, and Morse codes sent by long-lost submariners. The loop I'm listening to right now sounds like a whale-song, deep, unfathomable, a final lullaby for Ahab perhaps.

My Buddha Machine howls quietly by my bed all night. Powered by a 6V adapter, it sings me to sleep, its single red eye glowing on my nightstand. The Buddha Machine can also run on two AA batteries that tend to grow weak rather quickly, causing the tones to deepen and distort further as they slow down into oblivion, much like the dying song of another mechanical creature with a single red eye.

Good night, Buddha Machine, and pleasant dreams.