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EGR: One Possible Explanation
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Christopher Locke
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Dec 13, 2001 00:43 PST
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Gonzo Marketing: Winning through Worst Practices
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0738204080/entropygradientr
http://www.gonzomarkets.com
http://www.rageboy.com/blogger.html
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Valued Readers:
Back to fundamentals then, here's how it goes. Echo of thunder, the
cadence of waves and rain and waterfalls. The syncopation and
counterpoint of fire. The howls and shrieks of animals. The cries of
birds. Before beginning, a place to begin. Vox. A calling. A vocation.
Vocal attention to what needs attending to.
Between the silences, a certain rhythm, swelling, shifting. Staccato
dawn surprise, news of day returning through forest and jungle,
desert, tundra, steppe. The music of heat, the beat of the heart, of
the blood, of hunger and desire. Before drums there were patterns of
voices, the weaving sounds the drums would fabricate at nightfall.
Trying to remember something once heard. Trying to hear beyond memory.
Then naming the sounds: fa, ka, bo, ro. Ma, re, lo, tu. However many
tongue and lips and breath could form in endless permutations. Magic
and mimicry, signal, song. Just for the hell of it. Just for the joy
of joining in, the combination of tones and harmonics. In the right
sequence, you could dance to it. Under the moon, under threat of
death, you could move to it, groove to it. You could begin to get the
picture.
And semaphore: connect picture to sound. Solfege with semantics: cast
spells. The spell for stone is "stone." The spell for sky, "sky." Vox.
A calling, then. An invocation.
But still, that was just the beginning. A map into which we wandered.
Into which we wondered. The naming of things by their sounds and
spells was only the start. Because the names grew deeper meanings,
shifted too, like the light, like day and night, found their own
rhythms and rivers in some larger and unimaginable imagination. No one
is here. No one calls to us: come.
Vox populi, vox dei, someone said, and getting the equation backwards,
we were lost in gods. For a thousand years or a million. For as far
back as we can remember. Unimaginable, they must have dreamed us, we
dreamed. Must have dreamed these sounds and these maps and these
endless rhythmic meanings. And even then, it was only starting. Only
then it was getting even with itself. Catching up with what had
already come. Been said, been mapped, been vocalized, been spelled.
For once called, it cannot be unbidden. Such is the way it takes.
And the way it takes leads where it likes. Whether we like it or not.
Whether we continue or try to go back. Back to what, exactly, it might
taunt. Whatever calls, whatever asks such things. There is only
onward, only more. Combination and recombination. Names unhinged from
the things they once named, set free, gone native. Simile, metaphor,
idea, abstraction. Fa, ka, bo, ro. Ma, re, lo, tu. But modulated,
shifted up a couple octaves. Natural languages, natural musics.
Natural wonders of the world. And naturally, what is called, if called
often enough, eventually replies. Be careful what you wish for.
Coca Cola, CIA, schedules for the London Underground. At first light
we broke camp and made our way South along the border. Carbon-14 and
messenger RNA, radio telescopes in Arecibo. It seems we're getting
something here, Inspector. Taps on the telephones. Requiescat in pace.
The delicate pastels of morning, hieroglyphic scarabs, clockwork toys.
Aurora borealis over microscopic islands of gallium arsenide. SETI
coming up empty, shutting down. But what do you make of this? Every
200 minutes, it repeats. Must be some kind of code. Jaguars in the
windows on the 45th floor. You can see them if you shade your eyes.
Right there, across the ravine. Quantum geography? Yes, we've been
meaning to check. And in Cairo tonight, a fire, 12 deaths. According
to our latest intelligence, the moon has permanently disappeared.
Deadlines and bloodlines, lapis and turquoise in Chiapas. So many
sorties. So many stories. Getting harder and harder to keep track.
And beneath it all, bass line and grace note, the sounds from which it
all began: echo of thunder, cadence of wave and rain and waterfall.
Syncopation and counterpoint of fire. The music of heat, the beat of
the heart, of the blood, of desire. Vox. A calling. A vocation. Voice.
Looped through six billion minds a hundred trillion times. Entwined
and elevated. Modulated, shifted up. Weaving. Rising.
Listen: maybe trying to tell us something.
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