To think of sound as a writing structure.
To think of writing as a sound structure.
If this were a piece of music how would I make it.
I’d start with a sample, something I’ve recorded,
the sound of sandpaper on wood.
First a slow rhythmic
schkemph, schk-kemph
Then I would try it four octaves down,
Hearing it flex, pitch and time intertwined
sccccckkkkooooeeeewwwwmmmmpphhhh
Does it have enough bass to ground us?
Enough density when stretched to tearing?
Finding the edge of the sound,
its frayed blurred edges.
Lay the lower scrape below,
overlapping the higher in rude rhythm,
until the push and pull attracts something of each other.
Then I’d think, what then does this all mean?
Does it have to mean or can it simply make sense?
Within a sound there are so many ways to listen to it.
So many things to listen to in it.
I try to direct you to the thing I am hearing.
That scrape that goes with the growl.
That glittering grit that flits over the left ear.
That ping ring that glances off the upper edges.
That flitter shimmer that emerges as the two collide.
Is it egotistical or altruistic
that I attempt to share my ear,
make you hear as I do.
A desperate act, doomed to fail
because your cochlea will always coil
ever so differently to mine.