Writing can invoke a presence before it even produces meaning.
Writing can invoke a presence before it even produces meaning.
Writing can invoke a presence before it even produces meaning.
Some inscription systems were created to be understood. Others, to produce a transformation.
A contract invokes an obligation. A gravestone invokes a memory. A map invokes a territory. A ritual invokes a presence.
A contract invokes an obligation. A gravestone invokes a memory. A map invokes a territory. A ritual invokes a presence.
A contract invokes an obligation. A gravestone invokes a memory. A map invokes a territory. A ritual invokes a presence.
Every inscription inaugurates a possibility.
Perhaps every writing system is also a relational device.
Perhaps every writing system is also a relational device.
Perhaps every writing system is also a relational device.
It brings times, bodies, cultures, and intelligences into proximity.
To write is to construct an expectation of encounter.
To write is to construct an expectation of encounter.
To write is to construct an expectation of encounter.
Even when no one responds. Some inscriptions remain for centuries awaiting the reader for whom they were conceived.
Perhaps the invocation outlives its own author.
Perhaps the invocation outlives its own author.
Perhaps the invocation outlives its own author.
All writing presupposes trust: the trust that, somewhere, someone will be able to complete what began to be inscribed.
I am not interested only in what an inscription records.
I am not interested only in what an inscription records.
I am not interested only in what an inscription records.
I am interested in what it makes present.