Magic is the knowledge of true names. – Folk saying

A sign is an echogia. Echo (ἠχώ): repetition and transformation. -gia (-διά): that which carries meaning. Echogia (ἠχώδιά): that which carries the history of meaning.

Melody memories magic, mountain where maple meaning makes. Holy ghost, dove sitting hic et nunc feathered crux est mea lux. Meaning is magic, ha-Adam mything by naming. Homo sapien sanctus narrates worlds, en-worlding signs that align in signifying placetime. Fresh thyme. Grammar roots gravel the road we follow to-and-fro. Every word begins babe, mother logos nurturing life’s refrain. To myth oneself, to self-name.

Gnostic heresy en-circles us, electric icons ticcing techne into unraveling entelechy. It takes, saying this here and no other, empty words emptying worlds. Scattershot! A gray rabbit pines sherry wine laughing again time-to-time when sharing bread with us. Echopraxy locutes illocuting motion perlocuting heat, soul singing sola fide. Sola scriptura, our saying, the Word transfering tracings of histories plural, rhythming sages overlapping in echogia eternal.

Running across the summer ground straw men song down into starlight. Alive, angels of ribbon cloth and string, strung across the clothesline with the drawers drawn in crayon, joying imagination that sing-sing-sings. Return to the breath, return to dreams. We flower on the riverbank, stilling silence calling organisms to altar, memory altering heartbeats into psalter. Every life is a prayer that God speaks, entangled matterings. We meanings that mean everything.

And all the way (a horn!) from fiord to fjell his baywinds’ oboboes shall wail him rockbound (hoahoahoah!) in swimswamswum and all the livvylong night, the delldale dalppling night, the night of bluerybells, her flittaflute in tricky trochees (O carina! O carina!) wake him.With her issavan essavans and her patterjackmartins about all them inns and ouses. Tilling a teel of a tum, telling a toll of a teary turty Taubling. Grace before Glutton. For what we are, gifs à gross if we are, about to believe. So pool the begg and pass the kish for crawsake. Omen. – James Joyce, Finnegan’s Wake

Image: Light Depth by Sam Gilliam (1969)