The Wind Cannot Hear Me

'An amorphous globule that we call home. Thinking is diagrammatic and compresses parts into a perceived object that reassures us that it is continually waiting to be revisited as a state. Its rate of change is slower than ours. Listening is certainly a cochlear cartography that connects the field of objects within a shifting field of dispositions. Matter is pregnant and capable of generating form on its own, language does not cut reality but rather is cut from reality. We listen to novel languages, as things mingle amongst themselves and buffer one another’s qualities into sonic evocations. A constant swarm of tiny heterogeneities. The air is animated with countless forms, a multitude of frequencies each with their own micro-politics. Sound employs bandwidth plateaus in order to express itself amongst countless other expressions. Existence is a fleshy stethoscope and one can simply put ones ear to the ground and hear what is forming and deforming. As one thing happens in coordination with another, a semblance of reality is formed as an acoustic arena, a sonority in which a listening body emerges, pocked and marked by acoustic trajectories. It is important to stress that I do not refer to noise as the everyday noises of things in the environment but rather an ontic noise, a larvae from which all sound emanates. I envisage this as a deep vibrational noumena behind sonic appearances and phenomena, a site of ontic quivering smoothness, an undifferentiated soup, a density and pressure where creases arise and pierce through the surface into the symbolic. To make a simple analogy, white noise covers the entire range of audible frequencies at equal intensities until it is filtered and subtracted.'