Errant speech, speech wandering. Fascinated with itself, lost in itself, speech is only the absence of place in which everything is lost. The world lost by way of speech; the world unjoined in speech.
Who speaks? What speaks? The one whom all place usurps; the one who unjoins time: I heard it speak in your voice, in the wavering of your voice. Heard it speak, but it was only your voice that spoke, only its speaking, that detached itself from you and wandered without you. I would like to hear you.
One day I would like to hear you. One day, I would like to coincide with my hearing. For isn’t listening, too, to wander? Isn’t listening lost in its own fascination, with its great passivity that spreads everywhere, ice plain, ice sheet that is gap between listening and itself? To speak, to hear: there is never time to speak, to listen. Never a place for speakers, for listeners.
I think this is the source of the legend of the Sybil. She speaks, but she does not know what she says. Speaks in tounges, away from herself. Oracle, priestess, her eyes roll up into her forehead. Speech – but can you hear what she says? Will you ever understand? Oracular speech cannot be heard. Or what is called oracular is speech that has only redoubled its loss from itself, its wandering.
She speaks of what is lost, and what you lose by listening. Speaks of what lost between, between you and between yourself. Yourself: you listen, you wander. No: there is listening, there is wandering. After you can only recall – what? The mystery of the world detached from the world and wandering, lost, in its corridors.
Lars Iyer's Blog 