In the sonic penumbra (Part 1)

Jun 30, 2020

(Extract of the first version of the text “In the sonic penumbra of the womxn-waves”)

In the sonic penumbra, a wild sound, a piercing and persistent tinnitus, which has become an infinite and continuous scream — as if that scream reversed the principle of silence. It’s actually a dark, submerged, deaf scream; not quite human nor non-human. A stuck, breathless rage that expresses itself in the trachea. A long aquatic death rattle by which the mental universe has been invaded. Nothing like the first scream or the last one. A vibration with multiple repercussions in liquid, where the rage of the explosion is muffled. A scream that is spewed out and takes shape in the scum saliva and foam of the waves. If it is released from the water, the scream would burst the eardrums and bring blood gushing down the neck.

That scream echoes in the blood-time.

When we bathed our hair in the glottis of their heroes
Distilled our piss in their brains
Immersed our aquatic cry in their bodily fluids
Rippled in the rivers of their dreams on acid
The drugs made the fishes’ teeth fall out,
We recovered them
To plant them in our vulvar gums
Into the path our ichthyoid vaginas use to swallow everything
Now they were slicing through the carotid arteries with each thrust
Once severed, the sound no longer formed on their lips
We thought we’d finally silenced them
But you can still hear their hearts pounding in their necks
Even in death they were still noisy
But with the grumbling of dying people
When they know they won’t survive long

Only particularities in grace matter
Only particles in grease remain
If a return to the abnormal is planned
Let this order be sunk
And all of us drowned

This scream is just such a scream, because we have recovered the arsenal of weapons used to control us. This cry is precisely a cry, because we are considered a species prone to a disorderly and uncontrollable discharge of sounds, which they describe as howling, groaning or complaining. We put our anger on the tip of our tongue and then cut it off. These pieces of tongue rolled in our hands and allowed us to make the scream resonate further. We wanted to form a poetic body, for the struggle of the imagination. To recognize ourselves, we dyed our cheeks with the sliced glottis of our enemies. It was not their blood that interested us, but the silence we obtained. To make our cry possible, to capture the sound capacity of the dominant imaginations, to regain possession of our voices and their roughness. These voices had to make the link between inside and outside, between the immersed and the terrestrial, and that’s why they had to be fragile and powerful at the same time.

Joana, Anna Matchké, Franziska Schanzkowska, Rosa Luxembourg, Ana Anderson, Maiga Adryan, Rosalia Lübeck, Anastasia Nikolaïevna Romanova, Lucie Berlin, Lena S, Anastasia Manahan, Rosalia Lübeck, and others names whose have been silenced.

We were those of the Karpfenteich, the Spree, the Landwehrkanal, the Teltowkanal, the Spandauer Schifffahrtskanal, the Havel, the Panke, the Sachsendorfer Badensee. These are the ponds, canals, rivers and lakes in which our bodies have mixed with other bodies, pores, spores. We’ve gone up the currents, from the fortified lines to the drainage and diversion channels, from the upper locks to the cooling plant basins. No generations. No future. No history. No front, no back, no side. We were all at sea again. An endless liquid plane of altered and defective bodies, symbiotically hyper-linked in what some call hyper-sea. We no longer had a single form, we were now multiple, dark, shady, complicated, threatening, erotic and equivocal.

We are the womxn-waves
In trace of their shores
The skimmings
The rushed ones
Worn out by dreams
Under acid
Of their psychoses

They think they control our technology
Jam our signals
Silence the grain of our voices
But our echolocation
Allows us to find our way around
In their mud
We are Wireless
Without attachment
Our XX are swarming
With multi-colored bacteria
Lying on the ocean floor
A desert of our medicated piss
And our freeze-dried plastics
The channels
From our skins
Are swollen
With spores
With pores
With dead fish
With vomit :
We are bloodthirsty
The sight of so many bones/water in the rivers
Turns their stomachs
Who’s “we”?

Our waters, skins, organs, teeth, hair and nails had joined the canals and rivers of the city. Some had been silenced there. Others, having suffered too much loss, had chosen the blackness of the rivers to muffle their cries. For others still, these waters were a space for transformation. Once the liquid we contained had joined the one that contained us, we were ready to become a single rebellious body. They imagined that we had joined the sea to live the experience of the original birth, but we sought to achieve a dissonant poetic and political unity, a humid cacophony, a future where we could live together, altered, without preserved identities. For this we had to merge, dissolve and then reassemble. Tearing each other apart and coming together at the same time. Our bodies bounced in the canals which drowned our dead and the relics of our becoming. We had surpassed the human race, crossed the barrier of spaces and species. We were now deformed and transformed, one liquid space in another liquid space. We differentiated, while the sky was covered with scales.

To break the revolution we forbade them from sharing a body together. Yet they managed to dissolve, merge and reassemble themselves. Their bones/water, organs, teeth, hair and nails had joined the canals, rivers and lakes of the city. Underwater, in the dark, they began warlike murmurs. Their battle will be for the imagination, a reconquest of the field of possibilities through thought. They will relearn the grains, the tones, the inflections, the pauses, the silences, the repetitions, and the hesitations in their voices. But also the stories.

In the sonic penumbra, a wild sound, a piercing and persistent tinnitus, which has become an infinite and continuous scream — as if that scream reversed the principle of silence.This scream is deep: it vibrates but it does not waver. The water swallows it up in the darkness and seems to make it lose its liquid appearance. Using echo-localization, the scream collides with space and allows the womxn-waves to find their precise location in the muddy water. This sound creeps into lagoons, gaps, intervals. From there it prepares to defeat them and the privileges they have obtained. Privileges they paid for with our blood and suffering, ravaging, polluting. Everything in their path becomes disgusting.

There is no more paradise Lost
There’ll be no more paradise at all.
They’re wasted
Drunk, they are drunk
Drunk to the water/bones
They have Rosacea
The booze they’re gobbling up
Hues their cheeks red
Also they call themselves the Reds
Because they’re bloodthirsty

Their XX with double mouths
Laughing to bring them down with joy
They hide from their hair
Illuminations and rifts
That’s because she wanted a relationship with no power issues
That one of them has been killed three times
This event is worth remembering

And will pass through the generations of each bloody-fold

To recognize each other
When they meet
They make the sign of the scream
With mouths, bodies and fingers
From the biggest to the smallest
Circles of revolution
By joining the corners of their lips
Or Index and thumbs joined
When they finally show the back of their hand
They know they’re not going to survive