miss heard playing 'slips of the ear' (echo notes 3)

I've been thinking... this interest in sound I have running is a paddock (think field) much wider than language, grammar and word...and sound. Its borders on music and sound performance, yesssirey, but its in some other county, its its total unworded-ness that interests me. Phrases for the definition of it are as shifty as the word for sqeeze-box (what is that thing!)... but each frame be it plosives or frictatives (they're parts of sound in speech-just showing off- nice sounding words though) and other more common frames like pitch, loudness, quality and the time/duration frame, are all waiting , sitting in speech itself all lined up like ducks , just waiting for some one to unhinge them from their fragile common sense. Some ripping needs to happen. A shake up, a reshape. The rhythms of this english (full of itself and scraps of the others) the stresses on words and phrases, the whole melody of it, pitches, transitions and contours are when shewed... for me, the first step OUT.

The contexts, theories and the fabuloso tecno-texts that are blossoming around new media poetics are mainly defined to mash-ups, sound clashes and bootleg remixes of music...which is just brilliant and excites me to my eye teeth, but the remixing of text and voice and thats where my interest lies at the moment, are virtually untouched, if you think relatively. If you don't thats OK.

Gertrude Stein liked 'Ford cars, bill boards, filmstrips and the view from planes'... this sounds like the web in an earlier reincarnation to me, not literally but ideas wise, breadth of scope wise, speed, perspective wise. She cut up so much common sense that it made it real again and the cardboard of language started singing.

'There is singularly nothing that makes a difference a difference in beginning and in the
middle and in the ending except that each generation has something different at which they
are all looking- Miss Stein "Composition as Explanation"

I'm very keen to see what my 'looking' is seeing, in this generation, now...and it's ALOT of text and a voice in echo that is dry dry dry dry.

'Print is similar to the lecture' Dianna Laurillard "Rethinking University Teaching"

I'm with Creely...
'Anyhow I know where you can get a lot of words for potentially nothing, though you'll have to figure a way to get them home.' Robert Creely "Day Book of a virtual Poet" - referring to the web.

The re-contextualizing and remixing of text and media appropriated from existing film etc into performances, installations and web projects, is what I am doing and extending into an ongoing examination of possibilities for a new media poetics... of voice.

Ibitsu (click HERE), left me a comment on my post "Luigi Russolo, experiments with music, sound, noi...":

Great post. I am using Russolo as somewhat of a starting point for my thesis on noise music, as it is one of the first recorded attempts at bringing noise into music.

I am curious though, do you think we even need to delineate the categories of noise at all? In
breaking them into such sections it seems perhaps in a Deleuzian sense we are striating noise, restricting it in some way.

Should we not though allow noise to refer to the nomadic, to that which can never be caught; thus signaling a paradigmatic example of how noise can explode categories?

There is a bit in the manifesto where I think Russolo calls for us to destroy the piano (if I
remember correctly). But I feel nothing should be excluded from the musical composition;
rather than shut down one element to open another should we not let the piano resonate next
to Intonarumori?

What do you think Majena?

And I think... oh yes, I agree oh yes, Deleuze's voice (ideas) make a librato out of cardboard. Love that mind. Me though as an explorer, more like a cow girl really, setting of from the shore of my 'known' , well I have no instruments bar these pithy words to steer out and AWAY (but probably through) from. Cause theres got to be a gate in here somewhere. In my text-work I break (with delight) common sense, grammar, dictionary definitions, spelling, BUT the breaking of voice is so sooooo conditioned even more than written text, it started earlier- the frames laid down in our first interactions with the world, the naming of things. (think Lacan's symbolic)... so I'm applying like a grip the same strategy to undo it. I don't know if its even possible but I'm on my horse and I'm riding out onto the prairie... and I have a few maps in my pack and they are all stuck together over the top of one another... (there are corrugations between them though)... I know not where I will end up. Thank you for your questions. I'm hoping we can continue them fuuurrrthur.

echo note 2. not the how the what for in writing -majena mafe

Writing is writing. Itself. The making of writing is one shaped word after another. A winding sheet. In place. Writing is present …present again…and that is it all and that is enough.

To speak. To speak of writing as an addon. Inserts. It sucks over writing. Polops of dry areola. There are echoes between speak because there are gaps. And there are echoes inspeak because there are holes. Enough. After the word. But writing is there still, as writing. Writing is steel.

Words can soon go empty.

Self and writing are not the same there is no same of either or. But self and writing have each other’s inside obliquely. At a lapse to their shoulders.

A self emerges in writing that collapses when the writing is not.

A self is a subject. But it is gone now.

The discursive subject is gone. Once stated. The restating of bird as a bird is a bird was a bird, is the bird remembered re-membered. Each time. Each time the subject is differed. Is moved to the here now this shape. In this way.

The writing self

Not a comfortable possible I build a word and move out from there. There places that there is no feel home or comforted in …in the nothing. In the nothing there are still now and more frequently there then …arising questions that across the gaps…and a substantial slice of bread and butter.

At here…I am histories… histories lost restoring to them. Each place is gone from. Gone from.

I was not raised in the world yesterday. I am raised by myself inside myself, now. One thing good it is big and full. From it’s contents found there, from its shaky spindly opps gone, structures made of its stuff that goes by the definiteness called commonly none-enly nonsense and rubbish: rhymes, patterning, whispering, leaps, humming and singing sighs, and signing’s to myself and listening for echoes existing in the same world: rocking and carrying myself around inside my arms, crossing my fingers, burying my self in the fur smell of animals, living in walls, pulling at sores, smelling my knees, pulling tears from my ears, walking on cracks and watching the light across everything and inside the nothing at night… I scraped out a scaffold to hold my self on out from…

Writing restores. Re- store. The grown to sounding through silence of the stuff of its hollowness.

I am a little girl I am a very early age, I am old I am gone. I feel that things every-thing’s… seems finished for me. Then time. Trickle by time everything feels from that place is an extra long to hang on to the frail cavalcade wires of hope and there was a lot a lot of space.

The wire become me and my eyes are formed from there I watch it all stones- her face - stale bread - and super market glut-tonies…matter feeling situation because I am building a from like an engineer I am aware of what bridges the ravine first then second… a history as a filament of hoped for girders.

To write is the before it has passed.

In a dream I find red kittens, they are loved instantly. I ride a horse with the kittens on my lap. I hold tight to his neck collar…he throws me off. We enter a place to live that I must share with others I tell them I don’t like them and I watch over my daughter sleeping in the back of a car and wish for my husband to come away from a book.

image by me

echo notes 1

...while the mocking birds mock, they don't copy the human voice singing.
their voice-s are imitations without reciprocity, forms of echo that stop at that point.
Parrots learn human sounds but Herder says they "have learned enough human sounds; but have they ever thought a human word?"...there are so many ways sound insinuates into and under and forms language.
Last night, leaving a gathering of people at dusk, the trees outside were teaming with black starlings and moving leaves and branches and the whole lot was swimming/screaming as one big mass...what does it mean when sound breaks down the form? The edge? the noun tree dissolves. The noun bird is all guttural cry. The incomplete becomes very very big...at this point 'more' can and does happen. In singing this happens how? In poetic language how? In texts ? In the body?

The samuri at a certain point stopped their killings and became interior-the Fuke sect, the wandering monks of this Buddhist lineage, known as the komuso, became famous as the Zen Priests of Nothingness...they understood that it was possible to sound on the flute a note that would break through 'the everything' one sing sound the unsound.