[NetBehaviour] Goddess of Storms and Alphabets
maxnmherman at hotmail.com
Tue Aug 27 18:53:10 CEST 2019
Take a pebble for instance, an item,
One of the few and many that can be picked up by hand.
Some are like this.
Some can also be instruments, sticks or stones, alongside the immovable base-grounds.
Hence thou hast compositions, counting, forms, names, phrases, and such.
Early folk creating grammar on the fly, far from learning it or being taught it.
What counts the quiet though, the quietus?
There can be no count without that, no seeing, not even any hearing.
Well the breathing counts it, says the brain.
Imagine all paint and no canvas!
You lose track of your sons.
Were they ever even yours, oh fleet of foot?
Wild turkeys cross the streets coolly around here,
Up from the Mississippi,
And I thank them daily for it.
More than one story-set or circle of the world
Calls life breath, the one and the all
An old-time bellows or mill that moves particles
Like Da Vinci drew
Each pebble a point and a pointer, if marked,
And of course a black square.
From: NetBehaviour <netbehaviour-bounces at lists.netbehaviour.org> on behalf of Alan Sondheim <sondheim at panix.com>
Sent: Monday, August 26, 2019 6:11 PM
To: NetBehaviour for networked distributed creativity <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org>
Subject: [NetBehaviour] Goddess of Storms and Alphabets
Goddess of Storms and Alphabets
I'm not sure how language would begin, not sure how language would
be recorded as a gesture accompanied by a sound. Sure to be sounds
accompanying gestures that hardened, somewhen into a signal or
call, somehow a meaning. The sounds were ghostings, heard over the
hill around the hill in the forest across the stream behind the
rocks above the cliffs within the caves, the gestures were bodies,
the bodies were breathing, there were two directions, into the
lungs, out from the lungs. There were swirls and whirlwinds and the
world breathed and was given body and bodies. It was cool to hear a
knowledge from one who was knowing, invisible, elsewhere. There
were cries too from the woundings, there were disappearances of
familiar voices from leaving and dying which returned in memories
and dreams made real with them, the waking in the night, the
weeping and ululations. The world was enormous and narrow and all
around and the same for many comings and goings for weeks and
months at a time, or just a vision around the boulder surface or
from the sky when things moved there, as they always did. The world
was always different than the world, and always new and old, and
always the world. The murmuring of the world was everywhere and
everywhen and when that became language and accountancy, everything
moved away, quietly, until distance itself became unfathomable,
unknown even in its familiarity. Sure to be sounds, sure to be.
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