In the morning, writing some words. At noon, pleasant conversations with Beatrice, David and Fernando. In the afternoon, spending some time with friendly cows that will be part of a sound work. Then the restless movement of the opening of Liminaria. And at night, a resounding solitude removes space for words, therefore opening paths to silence, putting life into composition. Some found tones, extended between memory and physical signals, accompanied by some grains extracted from the millions of them that are subtly drawn in Fortore.
Many layers of sound that seem to be interleaved, but knowing that both are all a simple vibration. Many silhouettes that seem fragmented, but knowing that all depend on each other in a unique relationship. So futile it is to consider silence as nonexistent, as considering sound as real. Listening does not reveal sound, does not reveal silence, only make us aware that even among universes appearing sounding or silent, we are mere infinite space not really crushed by polarities. There, listening becomes a form of meditation, not only because it calls for silence and stillness, but because it requires cultivation of a non-intentional, non-dualistic disposition towards a repeated and constant practice. Therefore, composing, even with algorithms and digital machines, can always be recognized as a spiritual exercise.
Eventually one will assume the fact that working with field recordings is not only the fact of composing with the sounds of the environment per se, but also weaving the worlds that get manifested in listening itself, never objective, never merely subjective, but always free to an experience devoid of molds. Field recording thus becomes a task that not only includes technologies such as a microphones or a cybernetic memory, but also being a process where ethereal forms are recorded between listening and remembering, knowing that it is not possible to capture the sound of environment as such, but the impressions generated by multiple timelines collapsing inside listening territories; recorded affects, living in the deep silence of listening. Composing is thus a mixture of what is dreamed to hear and what you can acoustically capture, combined under one manifestation, which is registered in the machine and simultaneously kept in the spirit, kept alive in memory, felt not only the ears, but above all, in the heart. Impossible not to value at this point the relationship language itself manifests: a ricordo in Italian or recuerdo in Spanish mean a unit of memory. And in English, record, recording, are allusive to the idea of registering temporal events, such as in a recorder. Rec, rec, rec: what is recorded is remembered, what is remembered is recorded. When composing one doesn’t interact with dead memories, as Beatrice suggested today. What we interact with is living in sound, organically spread in the ether, active in listening, owner of its own biology.