An arpeggio, poetically speaking, is a chord that cannot keep itself together, which breaks up into notes chasing one another in an endless cycle, tones, following, repeating themselves in a samsaric search for lost origins across associative distancing. It is an intelligent dance organization of a mobile of elements jiggled by invisible forces. As the broken chord staggers over the soundscape, the death knells of individual silences burst onto the shore and withdraw. There are so many sounds to the attentive listeners that it is actually the unsound or the silence that speaks, issues though the fissures. Here we have a potential structure for bearing numerous iterations or migrations of voices in isolation carried on one wave. And in this particular journey, which I should have properly performed live in concert one month ago, we who listen can meet the poetry and voices of Susan Howe, Ilaria Boffa, myself and Kamau Brathwaite, although the voices can be in the sounds themselves and I don't know all their names just yet. Those who listen can perhaps help me to understand them.
