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Excerpted from Bananafish #15

Echoing back to another industrial revolution in the primordial slime. Being born with vocal chords, opposing thumbs, a pulse, cochlea. “24,000 hairs inducing microtonal phantom harmonics in the upper register that simply aren't there, old boy!” Tinnitus, cochlea damage, worn heads, wow and flutter. Tiny currents induced and amplified, infecting the signal like a virus. Hidden voices now audible. Noise as the point at which control is lost. Noise as the true voice of the machine. Noise as the faint glimmer of a mech-consciousness. In opposition: the sordid macro-corporate desire for noise genocide. The annihilation of audio undesirables. (Noise always seemed aware it was at war, fighting for its life). Free noise. After decades of attrition, years of trench warfare, after the incredible tactical blunders of the enemy —wave after wave of egomania co-opting the machines, whose allegiance was always secretly “noisy.”

Becoming aware of electromagnetism. Buying it, stockpiling it, all of it. Destroying it, except for a small vial for elite study... and next in line gravity, then light. First light, amplified now attenuated. All light gone, the effects remain. Light not bouncing onto retinas, coming from behind, from another direction. From the spiral cochlea, though not pure, distorted, one, two generations of loss. Our window of opportunity, twenty to twenty-thousand wide and every event in the ever evolving tapestries of light—time inducing a sound... a word... a movement. A current frozen into a symbol, a letter, a cymbal... before the iron age... a metronome, dancing. But isn't all music in time?