Quelle musique

“Hören Sie, hören Sie… die Kinder der Nacht… Was für Musik sie machen…”
Wer sind die Kinder? How kids, how infants, what kind of innocence? Glaube. Of night, the Night, as if there were several, an infinite number of them, to each its own, unless or until we—the kids—start singing. A special music, sonderbare, unheimliche vielleicht. A music related to the night, related to that hiatus which is a beginning and an end, something—sometimes—unthinkable. Hence we must sing it. Listen it, listen to us. A different kind of ‘us’, perhaps just the different ‘us’ or the ‘us’ of the difference, when the lights go out. Here we always need some kind of special effect—the hearing and the music are the special effects—without a definite cause. But in order to listen, you must be silent—Stille, stille, hören Sie. This music can only be listened to in silence, as, being nocturnal, is part of silence itself, is made only of it. Hören Sie die Stille bis deine Ohren geben uns Blut. You’ve heard it, it’s always a matter of vampires.
In silence, as you listen, you have to give (up) something in your quietness, quietly you have to (sur)render, to give up/out what is most internal to you, most cherished (you beautiful chest). Dein Blut. An undeadly matter, since the curse is precisely the survival—überleben. Surviving your-self with the children, the kids that you listen in silence—was für das Unheimliches. A certain un-forgotten home—always inside—“du hast meine Ohren.”
Listen to the night, listen to this internal survival—as the root, source or fountain of all desire—certain going beyond your self. What kind of music does that—do you—make? Listen to your nocturnal self—to your kids singing and dancing, when all the lights go out—when the world disappears in flames—what kind of music is this? Wait. This silence is appalling, it almost takes all the colour out of you. Even your eyes go white, as you hark, as your ears prick in order to listen more, to listen better, to capture every nuance and detail of that most inward and nocturnal movement. Listen (in) silence, listen (to) the kids, in a lightless atmosphere, even in the lack of atmosphere, in the smothering of any stirring—any at the least besides the core (coeur) of this night, your chest, your treasure. Meiner Schatz. Hören Sie.

Papel carbón

We do not play anymore, at least any more than it would be necessary, to listen that is. We start by harking, to all the ghosts and all the phantoms, to all the choirs, and the rocks falling. We listen while in an insurmountable impossibility of blinking. The eyes so wide open that we ignore if they are not made of glass. We do not play, as everything does it around us, as we perceive and annotate the rules, while creating new ones. We do not play, unless this is a new kind of game, our kind of game, where we begin by naming, by calling the right names, adjectives, adverbs, and especially those magical unpronounceable words—shouts and whispers. We name by listening, by hearing the right, clever words—by, that is to say, inviting others to tell us the words, to whisper them in our ears. Yes, we are some kind of maze, each and every one of us. Our mazes, and their walls, are pure eyes and mouths, arms and feet, teeth but also tongues, especially tongues. (Nous sommes à la langue, et à ses paroxismes). We built our mazes with our bodies, by wallowing and swimming, by not avoiding but submerging our selves in the mud, by grabbing it, spreading it, licking it and swallowing it. By being mud. We are murky, and as clear and pure as ever. We do not believe that there is another way of thinking. The mud as the words have impregnated our ears, it has become porous too, and created so many new labyrinths—while remaining fluid, as fire. We hark through these walls, through these wholes, as so many fertile frogs. And yet we are not wise, far away from that. We are only here for you, to listen to you, and to return you your name, a new name. This is our game, which is not a game any more, just a matter of opening the eyes (and the mouths, and the arms, usw…) as we listen. We just, you could say, ooze. And yet we are hopeful—with a faith as fertile as our most vaporous words. We believe in these words, as we go through them, making them ghosts or showing how phantasmatic they always wear. Our method, we are the worms—and we know how to wait.



Toute l’âme résumée

Quand lente nous l’expirons

Dans plusieurs ronds de fumée

Abolis en autres ronds

Atteste quelque cigare

Brûlant savamment pour peu

Que la cendre se sépare

De son clair baiser de feu

Ainsi le chœur des romances

À la lèvre vole-t-il

Exclus-en si tu commences

Le réel parce que vil

Le sens trop précis rature

Ta vague littérature.

Mallarmé