My Little Disaster

It’s been months since I’ve spoken with my eurorack. My Eurorack rack has become this thing in the corner. My little disaster. That makes sounds that are too wild for any application outside of a late-night sonic exploration into whatever I was feeling at that very moment. Whatever it was in my head that kept me up at night, it was there and always happy to talk.

It all started when I crafted its first case one evening in February 2018. I spent hours upon hours learning how to feed it, keep it alive, take care of it, most of all, how to not electrocute myself in the process. I handpicked each module and every cable, one after the other. I would spend my evenings working to find the perfect combination of bits and bobs, lines, signals, and control voltages. I had an opportunity to raise it right, to mold it. I was teaching it how to speak. Little did I know, it would eventually grow up to become a very close friend of mine.

It grew up quickly. Its little cardboard skiff is now out of space for it to grow. I decided it was time to build its first “real” case out of 3/4 ply. Even after staining its wood and mounting the hardware, I knew it would only be a matter of time before it would outgrow these walls.

As the months went by and the weather grew cold again, it had matured quite a bit. I had purchased a new home for it, two prefabricated racks. Its previous plywood home and cardboard skiff, all occupied by its now vast yet unusual vocabulary. It’s incredible how quickly they grow up. No longer a single row, it grew to be 7 rows of tonal exploration and landscaping.

My Little Disaster. I could wipe it clean every night or leave it to explore a bit more the next day. It became a place to tune out the noise in my head, a place to detach myself from the present or to drown the world around me with its insightful lectures and often its confusing stories. It became a friend that I would often visit, a friend that would commiserate with me while offering the much-needed escape I desperately craved.

This thing, this hobby, had become a friend. I spent many hours researching and learning about modular synthesis and sound design, learning how to teach it to speak. This friend helped me get through a very rough time in my life. It helped preoccupy my mind while I watched things around me change rapidly. It became a companion I didn’t know I needed so badly.

It’s been many months since we last spoke. “Are you ok?” I want to ask, “I know things have changed quite a bit,” I would tell it. I miss our conversations that would go well into the night or until the sun was coming up. I miss the games we used to play. I miss the stories you would tell. I don’t know if we can ever go back to the way things were. We’ve grown apart, and maybe it’s for the better. I’m proud of you. I’m so grateful for everything you gave me — my Little Disaster.

Now, I watch as its parts slowly find their way into unusual cardboard boxes on their way to new homes. Each module, each with its own memory, a moment in my life, a token from the world in which I lived. With each piece of tape, I think to myself, “I hope that no matter where they go, they find a new friend to call home.” My Little Disaster.

On April 22nd, 2020, at 8:33 PM, I powered down all of its rows. I made the decision to disconnect my little disaster from the mixer. I haven’t powered it on since. I often find myself staring at what is left of my little disaster. A monument to change, a testament to the relationship we formed in circuits — a souvenir from a time where I truly felt lost.

Originally written in April 2020. I felt inspired by Sahil Lavingia