Angel Dance

Each technological device is a prosthesis for the amputated mental body. Tom McCarthy, says, justifying the faith in him at  3:AM,   “every point of contact between a body and its media extension marks the site of some secret burial.” The burial is secret because the murder is. What did Tom kill? He killed the word. He killed it dead. Watchman Lee used to call dead Adam's residual soul power a secret. If you take Watchman's glosses, those oracles who lost their powers  were reduced to writing. You saw them hunting round the cemeteries by night with spades and boots,  looking for overturned earth. Trying to dig the word, McCarthy set up  to restore communication of words, novels, poems with these dead lost powers by radio, transmissions of the med, tech, word. He only talks this way as a substitute for knowing the true powers of communication with the world and worlds given by the King of Kings to sons and daughters in their spirits where He ministers to their their every need with intercessions that can and cannot be uttered, Comforts, Provisions, and yes communications, but for real, not some make up. If you want to reconnect with what has been taken from your mind you needs must associate yourself with the Deliverer. That advice alone will get you banned from 3AM. 

The short list of poets who read, influence and answer every word spoken, heard and unheard, and cried in every vision needs to hear the same thing twice, or worse, if the broadcast is remixed, then let it transfix, thinking the one primal cry, ooooo, out of which all others flow in the river of sound-light be the great hymn that beings speak.

 "A novel is not selves, but networks; what we hear in poems is not signal but noise. Rilke had a word for it: Geräusch, the crackle of the universe, angels dancing in the static.” This essence neither hears nor speaks, but is noise. To be wrong but right, that is remixing the dead, is something like "a set of signals that have been repeating, pulsing, modulating in the airspace of the novel, poem, play—in their lines, between them and around them—since each of these forms began...attune your ear to the very pitch and frequency of its own activity—in other words, enable you to listen in on listening itself...."

 The poet-fiction Romance of Geräusch Rilke’s word static angel dance, here,  here  and here, is not the same motor or angel dance. Instead, "boring a hole in the lobe of the ear and pinning it to the door. This has everything to do with hearing as one born of the spirit, or as said in another place, he wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen as one being taught. So it says further, I have more insight than all my teachers, an insight that no more transfers by words than life is known by the dead. My ear you have opened."

Leaf Meditations and the Language Revelation? More McCarthy here.