Dear Vivian,

I am sitting in a room in Brussels.

I am sitting on a train to Hamburg.

I am sitting in a waiting room of my doctor.

I am sitting in a forest.

I am reading in winter, and I am reading again in summer.

An Echo,

of an Echo,

of an Echo.

By reading your book, your voice is turning into my voice; now it is my voice that is reSOUNDING what your voice resounded from other voices.

The I is turning into an you, and the you is turning into an I.

My voice reacting towards a body, reciting a body of words that wrote you –

how to respond?

You write while writing this text, you learned to wait to respond.[1]

That is the "moment before meaning.”[2]

The words,

a stream of sounds.

"We are creatures who have never been."[3] How my heart jumps when you describe us, yourself, me, your reader, as a creature. Suddenly I become an entity that is not purely human anymore, an in-between state of flesh and language.

You write, "Creature" is from the Latin creare, to produce. It means a living thing, that which has been created. So it also references your writing.[4]

I am shapeshifting between the thing I am sitting on and the letters on the page. In my imagination, the image of a unicorn and the monoceros, red beast – they are now part of me. Were they always there? You describe them as antidotes to each other, and I wonder if they are also not the same.

You write that "your writing is possessed by those whose forms and nature ARE NOT.

What is to begin writing about, from, for those that nature and forms are without existing."[5]

While reading, I'm listening into the gap "between you-my-me and you.”[6]

I try to attune to your words, to your sentences, to your columns,

each of them throws me into another chamber of resonance.

Meanings and non-meanings,

gaps of meanings,

gaps of understanding.

So often, I am "pushed-to-the-edge"[7] while reading your text. There are passages where I feel almost you try to block from understanding. But then you write,

"I have indicated this (that I did not (do not) understand) several times and will repeat it many times again. In the context of writing these pages, not understanding is orchestration to a key-signature. Not understanding means unrecorded."[8]

At start, it is a seemingly arbitrary reading,

at the end, coming-into-being.

Resonating voices of thoughts while flipping the pages.

Your voice is becoming my voice, and your words are my words from the very beginning, carrying the meaning of my own experiences. 

You write the words are all that I have. That they are the sound-marks of your soul. That you must obey them. It's like you see them as creatures on their own. Not interested in what they are representative of, but what is present in them.[9]

You place them under a microscope in the second part of your text, where I feel at the beginning even more in a vortex of disorientation, but then I realize that the confusion is actually an explanation. A moment where I actually listen to your word's significance, an hearing into your writing.

You write,

But the words of mine which you first hear must appeal to yours. In a way is my words which separates both of us from your hearing, but also it is your hearing which separates me from my words.[10]

I take a few of these words,

resonating with me,

carrying them with me,

whisper them into your ear,

you as the listener:

The Words first Encountered

Exchanges of Absence

To Find what is Beyond

Awareness structures

Other words collected in me

Body of tubes that tremble and blow

Ear

Gift of being audible

Stuffed with a rose

Not space,

not time

Hearing speech

Threshold of existence

A Body lived

Remembering

Heard Sound

Women who spoke to me

De-creating what I is[11]

You write: "experience, yes, words, particles, ruins and broken beauties of past knowledges live on these pages, but where I live is within the ruins of the sounds of this my own hand writing.”[12] And in the end again, that the only sound of voice is your hand moving on this paper.[13]

I write your words and sentences in my note-book. Is this your voice sounding? Or is it now my voice because it is my hand writing?

I am listening through your writing, I am listening through my reading.

What is sounding then in me is your voice, but also the experience of all other voices heard, read and listened to, to the audible spaces between those that form are not and those that form exists. Sounds of places and sounds of words.

"My ancestral forest,”[14] a forest of sound, an ecology of sound.

My voice in front of the microphone is turning into a gesture of appreciation for this polyvocal forest. A forest my voice is part of.

It emerged into the chamber of resonance.

You write,

We are sonorous beings, and the surround crucial to our sonorous beings is these pages. We vibrate herein.[15]

Thank you for pointing out that writing is a transformation in practice of what I hold in common with other beings: existence.

By hearing, listening, into this common ground an understanding can be made that goes beyond words and meanings, an understanding that has the possibility to attune myself to what is different from myself.

Thank you for listening to my voice, this chord of frequencies forming what I call my voice; it is now and never was just my voice; it is also not just a sound. These words spoken by me are a resonance within a consciousness that is not just mine, a voicing that is dancing between the gaps of confusion.