.. .. .. // a pause: as the keys click as I write .. .. .. // as the traffic hums by through the swaying left, aside, hrrrrmmmmmmmmarrrrnnnnnnnn, the Doppler Effect of my dreams succumbed only by the whirr of a laptop fan. Traffic. // .. this traffic, it be continuous: no honking, just woosh. Wooshing past through the left side. The left side of the body is seduced by the woosh of metal. .. .. .. I think of the hammering that just happened. Hammering in the building. Somewhere on a floor in this red brick building, there are sweaty, Quebecois workers, hammering. And drilling. Renovations. Tomorrow they come to drill holes in my apartment. I can already hear the sound of the concrete .. even though it has yet to happen. Future sound, projected now. // .. .. the traffic again: a bus makes a much more prolonged sound, as it drags its way across the cracking pavement, sun out, but colder now, the traffic slicing through the colder air as Fall sets into play the coming Winter .. .. tap tap tap .. my fingers on keys .. .. the fan .. and the bus: a symphony that is more melancholic than Futurist. (& a minute before, I was listening to music -- Rhythm & Sound, Berlin dub -- but the CD whirred down and ended, leaving me with-- // // the endless flow of thought: thought that is not spoken in my head. It is silent. But here it is, on the screen. Making itself heard. Becoming heard. And now that I realise this, I hear my voice, but it slips from hearing. No mouth moving, this is an internal voice. Have you heard it? Don't you hear it here as well? And everytime you read this? .. .. .. tap tap tap .. the Traffic, ceaseless, and the Sun, unlistenable. // . . .. .. .
I am a becoming-ear of the body.
tobias c. van Veen
tobias@techno.ca
Montreal, Canada
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