10 little tongues

Am I listening for words to come to me…

Hearing words in my head before my fingers type them. A split second. My fingers of course do not know the direction in which they are headed until the word is formed whole. A moment of skidding and sliding from the thought to the fingers.

The fingers are flawed, the words stumbling in their extrication into individual letters, resisting being broken down to one then another then another when they are thought as wholes in the head. The act of writing is the listening to the whole then the breaking down to the letters but trying to make that moment as fast as possible so as to not really acknowledge the letterising – so as not to be distracted from hearing the next word in the head.

I can type the word
W – e
just a split second slower than it takes me to say it.
But to spell this out loud – each letter a word in itself, takes twice as long.

The fingers faster than the tongue.

Fingers — 10 little tongues lapping the keys, like an armadillo eating ants? Do armadillos eat ants?

[An Aside] I noticed a headline yesterday about a man in Peru who shot at an armadillo. The bullet ricocheted off its plucky little armour and nearly took off the man’s jaw. Evolution in action – the smarter designs survive. [End Aside]

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For Gertrude or Seuss…

Hearing the words in the head before they are heard they are heard in the instant before being said an instant of words heard in the head then said that being heard are heard both now and a moment after they are said. The word once said can be heard in the head again and said again to be heard in other heads.

The saying and the said the now and the after, the word and the echo. The words in the head are fore-echoes for one (quantum sounds, quantum words, their waves travelling random in all dimensions). The fore-echoes for the spoker, the after-echoes for the heard.

I accidentally wrote spoker — the one who has heard and spoken — the moment already gone. There is no past-tense for people as actions. The swimmer the swummer – the one who has swum – the being the was-er. Always defined in our present action – regardless of tense.

But the pronoun? I is present in the present and can be there in the past and still there in the future. Always present really – here and there and then as well.

A cross-fade of words

Perhaps words have desires for themselves?
Which words desire to be heard?
Are there shy words and extroverted words?
Clownish words?

I am looking for the humble but wise words,
which know when to show themselves,
know that they communicate with reasonable efficiency
but not a two-dimensional flatness.

Words whose cellular walls are not rigid.
Words, that when placed with other words,
allow a kind of seepage – osmosis.
This word is a little weak
but with this word next to it,
it borrows some power.
The strong word is not so much diminished
but deepened and reinforced by this act of charity.
Like colours, the bright balanced by a neutral
not by hard edged contrast but gradation.
Can there be a gradient of words?

I’ve always loved  colour gradients.
I get a feeling,
a sense of endless potential,
wonder and satisfaction
at the point where the two colours combine.
Yet there is no exact point.
Just a seamless slide.
I swim in it, like a warm bath
dwelling in the transition.

Floating,
the colours can’t land,
one gradually intensifying while the other fades.
It’s not an aggressive takeover.
It feels consensual —
a letting go.
A moment of benefaction
and generosity.

My sound based on the cross-fade,
the audio version of a gradient.
Between the voice and the noise
one sound emerging from another
one sound grown and from another.

My work perhaps not about binaries or paradoxas —
the argument —
as I’ve been framing it,
but about gradients.

Or are there gradients in an argument?
In the middle of the outplaying
what can really be separated from what?
Moments of acknowledgment, acceptance –
Can there be gradients of disagreement?

(Feb 28, 2016)