If There Were A Sound is an inferential manifesto that seeks to isolate the moments of deep knowing that silently punctuate our consciousness and thereby color our perception. It is an attempt to find clarity in moments of confusion by playing Marco-Polo with the echoes of preintellectual awareness. This is an adaptive strategy, something constructed out of necessity. It is the shit-eating grin when all is lost, when the plane is going down and all you can do is laugh. It is a cry against help, a declaration of standing alone, because sometimes we’re just as fucked as we feel, and the only path forward is the one sensed in the stillness between breaths.
Part I began and ended with clouds, bookended by sky. Similarly, Part II begins and ends with atmosphere. A drunken walk on a rainy night in rural Japan, muddy feet and a mind opened to the sky.
This is about transition and uncertainty and the gut feeling that precedes conscious judgment of experience. It is about sussing out the significance of encounters with our environment in the times and places when and where significance is not readily forthcoming. Circumstances are not uncommonly reticent and unwilling to divulge what they stand for. Experience isn’t always ready to tell us what we want to know.
Not directly, anyway.
So we take the indirect route. We collect points of resonance like points of light. Constellations form and deliver to us an emergent meaning that is impossible to intuit from any one of its parts alone, but that becomes clear when taken in all at once, experienced wholesale as we review our stockpiled visceral vibrations.
This is one of my constellations.