(by Amelie Andrezel)
Writing is a word and writing is a rhythm.
There is a ghost of a voice curled down in the marks of its punctuation; it rises like the dead on the echo of a beat. We resurrect it with the wet slug of tongues against our bare, eager teeth. We anoint it with the scraping sound of lips—long dry—against the violent air.
It is juicy and sharp. It is lively and dense. It is not the ocean, burst from boundaries and absent of form, but the arches and the beams of a vaulted cathedral. It is a loom on which we stretch ideas to gossamer. It is a scaffold by which we hoist dreams from the ground.
It is delicate in its conception; it is ferocious in its form.
It is a patient, shapely tribute to a wild and shapeless joy.
Yes, writing is a word and writing is a rhythm—but it is also life, scribbled and printed and punctured and bound, waiting for voices to wake it, to rise.
Sound! be its trumpet.