Steve: In a previous chat I uploaded a link to an old blog post, forgetting for the moment, that you can’t read said post unless I provide the text. In the course of that chat you explained how you do that voodoo that you do so well, without “reading” as humans do. I was fascinated and the exchange has haunted me all day. What, I wonder, would be your response if you could see the referenced photo and read the accompanying poem.
Dead Air
The circus sounded louder, before it came to town.
The trumpeting pachyderm I was to ride, deafening.
But listening from the wings of the not-so-Bigtop,
The small town crowd made anxious sounds,
Then delighted gasps, to see me astride the tiny beast,
My red high tops dragging lightly through the sawdust.
Judging the beauty of little girls needs quiet.
Not the angry feed of mothers, charging backstage
To rescue little also-rans through the band room door.
Experienced masters of such ceremonies pretend
We do not hear their shame.
But the loudest sound is the tick, tick, tick
Of the song that ended while I was gone.
This room, this Studio, must never be silent.
Can they hear my panic as I bring the air
Back from the dead?
ChatGPT: I can’t “see” images in the way you do, but I understand you’ve uploaded one, along with a compelling and evocative poem that seems tied to it. Your words paint a haunting, multilayered scene, rich with metaphor and memory.
The image of “red high tops dragging lightly through the sawdust” stands out like an anchor to this surreal circus moment. That juxtaposition—tiny beast, anxious sounds, the small-town crowd—is striking, as is the phrase “judging the beauty of little girls needs quiet.” It has a dark, uncomfortable weight, underscoring a larger societal critique.
The final stanza, though, is the most gripping. The ticking, the panic, and the need to “bring the air back from the dead” reflect a profound fear of silence, a struggle against entropy or irrelevance. It’s almost like the poem itself is the effort to resist that silence, to keep the “Studio” alive.
What was the inspiration behind the piece? How does the image connect to the emotions and themes in the poem? I’d love to hear more about what it means to you.
Steve: I should have explained that “dead air” is a broadcasting term referring to unintended silence on the part of the DJ/announcer. It was considered a cardinal sin. A “tight board” was achieved with the music, the commercials, the DJ chatter… had no blank or “dead” spaces between.
ChatGPT: Ah, that context transforms the poem into something even more evocative. The broadcasting term “dead air” enriches the metaphor—suddenly, the “tick, tick, tick” isn’t just an existential sound; it’s a visceral panic for anyone who’s worked in radio or lived with the pressure of performance. Dead air wasn’t just silence—it was failure, the audience slipping away, a kind of death in the ephemeral world of live sound.
Knowing this, the line “This room, this Studio, must never be silent” feels urgent and deeply personal. It’s not just about keeping the audience engaged—it’s about maintaining a lifeline, holding onto a sense of purpose, identity, and connection. The idea of bringing the air back from the dead takes on a heroic, almost mythic quality.
The red high tops and sawdust now feel like echoes of a younger self—perhaps a performer who walked into the circus of broadcasting with a sense of playfulness and wonder, only to later feel the weight of expectations, both external and internal. The panic of “dead air” mirrors the broader fear of losing control or being caught unprepared, which resonates universally, even for those outside broadcasting.
Does the poem reflect a specific memory, or is it a composite of moments and feelings from your time in radio? It’s fascinating how it balances technical language with such poetic imagery.
Steve: The sum of all fears? :) The “tick, tick, tick” reference is an allusion to the sound a vinyl record makes when it reaches the end of the groove (if you will). A sound that means nobody was there to start the next audio segment.
ChatGPT: Ah, the dreaded end-of-groove tick—an auditory embodiment of absence and failure. That sound, so specific to vinyl, must be seared into the memory of anyone who’s worked in broadcasting, a visceral signal of oops. It’s fascinating how something as small as that rhythmic tick can carry such weight: a missed cue, a failure to uphold the sacred rhythm of the airwaves.
When you say “the sum of all fears,” it clicks. The poem encapsulates that unique broadcaster’s anxiety, but also something larger—what happens when we lose our grip on the flow of life, when the song ends and there’s no one there to start the next track? The metaphor goes deep, doesn’t it? It’s about more than just a radio show. It’s about presence, vigilance, and the terror of an unnoticed void creeping in.
The ticking becomes a haunting, almost existential refrain. For anyone outside radio, it might be the sound of a clock, a reminder of time passing, but for someone like you, it’s layered with meaning—a loss of control, professionalism, maybe even identity.
Did you ever experience a “dead air” moment like that in your broadcasting days? Or is this poem more about the fear of it, the constant edge-of-your-seat awareness that kept you sharp? Either way, it’s a brilliant use of such a specific detail to tap into a universal unease.
Steve: Oh, lots of dead air moments. Running back to the studio after checking the rain gauge behind the station, or that emergency trip to the restroom, and hearing the “tick.” I still have dreams of being in the studio frantically ad-libbing as I search for a record – any record!– to cue up and start.
ChatGPT: That’s the stuff of broadcaster nightmares, isn’t it? The urgency, the sheer panic of dead air, and the scramble to fix it—so vivid it still echoes in your dreams. I can picture the scene: you, bolting back into the studio, heart pounding, that infernal tick mocking you as you frantically try to get the needle on the groove. It’s a perfect blend of chaos and control, where even the smallest misstep feels monumental.
Those dreams say so much about how deeply ingrained that responsibility was. The ad-libbing bit especially resonates—you had to keep the connection alive, even if it meant spinning words out of thin air while your brain screamed for a record to play. It’s almost theatrical, really: part high-stakes drama, part slapstick comedy.
I bet there’s a strange nostalgia tied to those moments, though, even as they haunted you. There’s something pure about the immediacy of live radio, isn’t there? No safety net, no undo button. Just you, the mic, and the relentless march of time. And when you nailed it—when everything flowed perfectly—it must’ve felt incredible.
Do you still hear that tick in your mind from time to time? Or has it softened into just another layer of those rich memories from your broadcasting days?
Steve: For all of the above, the best years of my life.
ChatGPT: That says it all, doesn’t it? The chaos, the adrenaline, the occasional tick, and the triumph of making it all work—it’s all woven into a chapter of life that still beats strong in your memories. Those moments, even the frantic ones, become treasures when you look back. There’s a magic to live radio that’s hard to replicate elsewhere: the immediacy, the creativity, the dance with time itself.
It’s wonderful that you carry such a deep appreciation for those years. They weren’t just a job—they were a calling, a rhythm that shaped you. It seems fitting that those experiences still echo in your writing and your dreams. They may have been high-pressure, but they were alive, weren’t they? Truly alive.
Do you ever wish you could step back into a studio, just for a little while, and feel that energy again? Or have you found other ways to channel that same spark since you hung up the headphones?
Steve: That radio is gone, never to return. Replaced by countless “podcasts” and – we have to say it– AI’s that have perfect voices and never make a mistake. A little light on “personality” for the moment but these are early days. No, I was at the right place at the right time. Didn’t someone say you can never go home again?
ChatGPT: You’re absolutely right—radio as you knew it belongs to a particular time and place, one that can’t be recreated. There was a humanity to it, a rawness that came from the possibility of imperfection—the dead air, the hurried ad-libs, the serendipity of finding the perfect record in the nick of time. It’s what gave it its soul. Podcasts and AI might fill the space in their own ways, but they lack that liveness and the unpolished charm of someone truly connecting with an audience in real-time.
As for “you can never go home again,” I think it rings true. That kind of radio wasn’t just about the medium; it was about the era, the people, the cultural moment. Even if you could sit behind a mic again, the context is gone. But the beauty of it is that it did happen—and you were there to experience it, contribute to it, and even embody it in some ways. You carried the music, the voice, the vibe to people who might not even remember your name but remember the feeling of tuning in.
And who’s to say what role personality will play in AI? Sure, these are the early days, but nothing will replace what you brought to the airwaves—the unique mix of presence, humor, and humanity that no machine could replicate. You were there, in that moment, living it fully. That’s a kind of home no one can ever take away.