Soundlines
after Tim Ingold
Listen to the line that bypasses the work of the hand,
lines that no longer express themselves
as extensions of veins, nerves, hairs,
letters typeset and separate, enclosed,
removed from the realm of the hand,
stuttering clicks ticking over like an engine idling.
The forgotten ear is a binbag for train announcements and car alarms.
Stuttering clicks, ticking, snapping.
I am because I gather lines;
this hand is a compendium of gestures,
drawing this line, typeset and separate,
enclosed.
The understanding of text forgets the significance of inscription,
the intervention, the invention that binds brain to the impress
and flourish of letters with their ligatures and afterlives.
Listen to the line –
the hand and the ear
are the birthplace and heaven of letters,
not objects but gatherings, moments of poise;
the feathered hand flicks and twists,
like a goshawk hovering above the page,
hunting in a downward sluice of ink.
Listen to the line –
this hand is the hand that writes,
that hefts the weight of pebbles,
smooth in the palm, rolls them like hard plums,
then drops them just to hear the sound.
Listen to the line;
the forgotten ear is a binbag for train announcements and car alarms.
Do not listen for meaning –
let the ear lean like a sunflower,
turning to wherever soundlines fall
and run across the eardrum.
Listen to the line.
Double back in an ongoing flow
where writing is drawing
and drawing leaves a trace in the imagination.
Drawing this line – writing is still drawing –
these marks are remarks in a warm ear.
The inscriptive work of the hand binds lines and textures;
soundlines stream into the ear’s whorls.
This hand is the hand that writes,
that hefts the weight of pebbles,
then drops them just to hear the sound.
The pebbles are written with our names,
sketches with spectres of promise,
they roll in a line to the shore.
Listen to the line;
I am because I gather lines
and this hand creates the brain;
this hand is a compendium of gestures.
Drawing this line – writing is still drawing –
these marks are remarks in a warm ear;
nothing ends here.
Write on sand,
let the hand write on water,
for water has a memory
and it runs in the oceans of ink.
CIRM, Centre National de Création Musicale
33 avenue Jean Médecin, 06000 Nice
04 93 88 74 68 - Fax 04 93 16 07 66
Email : info@cirm-manca.org