LAYER 04: SONG OF AZAZEL
 |
| Diamond Marimba, Harry Partch |
The Church of Tenully does not lie in the realm of the visible, but in the fluid vibrations of air and breath and water and blood, The Church of Tenully is a hum that arises from forgotten childhood and disappears behind the veil that lies perpetually before you, masking love and death and all things that are holy, The Church of Tenully where the voices of those long dead still travel aimlessly between the walls and alcoves, voices that turn candle flames and snuff out prayers, voices that goad half-hearted confessions, confessing away from myself as horrified i hear my voice reflected in the holy water, confessing that i am not the one afflicted but the affliction, the plague to be driven out, residual noise
--celestial whirring, machine hum, the grain of the voice, all the same thing--
The angel of incidence let me down ever so slowly from the clouds, its cold stone hands still numbing my back even as warmth returned to my limbs. As i descended the celestial hums gave way to wind howl, the cities of gold far off on the horizon gave way to pits of gravel. i thought on the way down that maybe i caught a glimpse of the The Society of post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-post-Modernists, and i was briefly reminded of Alain, though i realize now you are likely too young to remember Alain now.
Do you remember, Old Man Hands, when our dear mother (i wonder what's become of her) would sing to us while we wrestled in her womb, that song, how does it go?
An hour of pondering and i still can't think of it, only a vague shadow it. If you should remember it please let me know how it goes. It will eat at my soul until then. Anyway, was there not one time when we were the same person, because we both heard our own mother's voice at the same time, as one ear. After all, you can hold your own hands before you and see that they are part of yourself, why shouldn't we have looked at each other and seen one self? The world we hear around us is two, the left world and the right world made one by addition, the ear that lives inside the head.
"Myth is the mode of simultaneous awareness of a complex group of causes and effects.
-Marshall McLuhan, The Medium is the Massage, 115
Old Man Hands, has it really been so long since we've last seen each other? Since we've listened to each other's voices? Your voice still sounds in the chambers of my head, but i feel it fading, melting into the walls to become dust.
"The instant when other voices are added to that one voice is an instant of metamorphosis."
-Harry Partch, Genesis of a Music, 7
i'll see you again at Alexanderplatz, if not next year then in five hundred years. And maybe you'll hear me wailing if it's ever raining where we both are.
Comments
Post a Comment