Sentences with phrase «about hearing the sound of his voice»

Not exact matches

The baby won't know what you're talking about, but will like hearing the sound of your voice.

I can still hear the sound of her voice as I moved about the room, folding and refolding, checking my packing list and checking it again, and I remember thinking: Does she see me right now?

It's the kind of film people feel strongly about, and I've heard a curious note in the voices of people discussing it: They sound serious and moved, and as if it made them take a longer look at themselves.

When MacDowell calls Davison at his TV studio to tell him about their son's accident, and he says he'll call the hospital, an ambulance coincidentally appears on a nearby TV monitor; the sound of this siren carries over to a shot of MacDowell with her son waiting for an ambulance to arrive, then carries over to Waits in a trailer watching the TV ambulance and hearing a TV voice - over say, «Accidents happen every day.»

Instead, the voice he heard sounded nasally and pinched and, worse, not very well educated, as if he were a bumpkin who had been called, perhaps even in mockery, to testify about holy things, as if not the testimony but the fumbling through it were the reason for his presence in front of some dire, heavenly senate.

When hearing their names» being called the cats displayed «orientating behaviour» (moving their heads and ears about to locate where the sound was coming from) and although they showed a greater response to their owner's voices than strangers», they declined to move when called by any of the volunteers.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

An ecologist is heard talking about the current state of the river's watershed; a group of skateboarders reveal their secret spot within the basin; weary voices of residents murmur about rapid gentrification, and musical sounds reverberate in the river channel.

As voice - controlled speakers, they need to always be alert for your commands, which means they're listening to every sound within their hearing range (which in our experience seems to generally be about the size of a 300 - square - foot room, depending on how loudly you speak).

No one complained about it being difficult to hear me, and everyone I asked for feedback said the clarity of my voice sounded great.