It Will Be the Silence, Where I Am? | Brooklyn Rail Nov. 2016

The dissonance and increasing layering of textures take control of pulse until the rhythm of blood is attuned to the composition. Hyper-awareness of the body to its own pulse creates an immense discomfort. In this complex net of rhythms, it becomes impossible to follow one entirely, confusing the aural thread of logic. A primitive state of terror takes hold of a heart that is being told to beat.

The sublime and the profane are revealed at once—
heaven and hell colliding and scattering in the spaces of my body,
heaven and hell that feel immensely real, unquestionable, immanent,
until my bones forgot they existed and my heart lost control,
had to reassure myself, of myself…

The sad hollows are lit for a moment by a single red “Firefly,” embering in the caverns. Fire returns to the first encounter with mercury, alchemical shift, elemental distortion—the ear is a heretic; stability is a façade. The point of rupture is sensed, awareness returns to the body, though moved far beyond the mind’s control. The labyrinth is navigated without the silken thread, as the pomegranate juice courses beneath skin, an irretrievable and deceptive poison.

(Ikue Mori, composer, electronics; Okkyung Lee, cellist; Sylvie Courvoisier, pianist; Jim Black, drummer)

Seedling fallen into the waters of Abydos,
sinking into primordial depths,
the darkness from which you came:
you were not supposed to know it again so soon…

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