Tração ou Moan da Queda Livre Immemorial

Tração ou Moan da Queda Livre Immemorial
By Cocteau
Any inarticulate chaos can feel like order. That’s why God invented rationalization. Sort of. I mean, an impassioned Dionysian guttural is nothing, if not radical and continual disruption, a direct challenge to cool Apollonian tenor.
If one experiences Ecstasies or Angst, or a craving for iced coffee, language is changed. One day you’re speaking German, the next day it’s Italian, and by Wednesday all you can do is weep mournfully and murmur a bit during the commercials.
Or hum. Yeah, aimless, adrift like a floating plastic bag tickling the abyss of your tonsils. Poised between polarities like the morphology of speaking in tongues. Or Portuguese. Or growling out an engaging series of whines, manifestoes, bananas and screams in regard to the sonic reality of language to define, corrupt and sustain. Okay. It’s in you and it’s got to come out. Then what?
Even with its most wacky and/or anarchic energies and capricious excesses, the body can manifest its own form onto communication, forcing a reconsideration of its meaning camp of potential. Unruly energy and unforeseeable semantic abundance collide. It is at this fertile intersection between a fruitful senate, sonic and pomegranate of intellectual possibilities at, or near, the edge of language– like, specifically when it abuts, melds into or erupts from the body– that language, in its broadest base, becomes, like, art.
What? Well, I guess I meant to say that… when it is on its own, out in the wild of car horns and dogs barking, geez, how, then, do you speak to an angel?
A plastic bag drops from my third floor bathroom window, sustained there, oh, so momentarily by ephemeral orchestration of chance Green Street air currents, elements impelled, affected by micro phonic invasions and the sonicity of the sound of the city, and ectoplasm and ventriloquisms and other nefarious affronts to free fall. Like whistling.
Hey, there is no goddamn balm in Gilead.
As plastic bags drift to earth, many say that they moan. Why else, one wonders, would they flip, flop and writhe like miscreant dolphins chokin’ on the splinters. Stop. Look. Shhhh.
A sea with only the smallest possible waves.
Endlessly green and blue and beguiling. Bobbing.
Beguiling. Beguiling.

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