Word is thread and the thread is language.

Nonlinear body.

A line associated to other lines.

A word once written risks becoming linear,
but word and thread exist on another dimensional
plane.

Vibratory forms in space and in time.

Acts of union and separation.

*

The word is silence and sound.
The thread, fullness and emptiness.

*

The weaver sees her fiber as the poet sees her word.

The thread feels the hand, as the word feels the tongue.

Structures of feeling in the double sense
of sensing and signifying,
the word and the thread feel our passing.

*

Is the word the conducting thread, or does thread
conduct the word-
making?

Both lead to the center of memory, a way of uniting and
connecting.

A word carries another word as thread searches for
thread.

A word is pregnant with other words and a thread
contains
other threads within its interior.

Metaphors in tension, the word and the thread carry us
beyond
threading and speaking, to what unites us, the immortal
fiber.

*

To speak is to thread and the thread weaves the world.

*

In the Andes, the language itself, Quechua, is a cord of
twisted straw,
two people making love, different fibers united.

To weave a design is pallay, to raise the fibers, to pick
them up.

To read in Latin is legere, to pick up.

The weaver is both weaving and writing a text
that the community can read.

An ancient textile is an alphabet of knots, colors, and
directions
that we can no longer read.

Today the weaving not only “represent,” they themselves
are
one of the beings of the Andean cosmogony (E. Zorn)

*

Ponchos, llijllas, aksus, winchas, chuspas, and chumpis
are beings
who feel
and every being who feels walks covered in
signs.

“The body given entirely to the function of
signifying.”

René Daumal

A textile is “in the state of being textile”: awaska.

And one word, acnanacuna designates the clothing, the
language
and the instruments for sacrifice (for signifying, I would
say).

*

And the energy of the movement has a name and a
direction: lluq’i,
to the left, paña, to the right.

A direction is a meaning and the twisting of the thread
transmits knowledge and information.

The last two movements of a fiber should be in
opposition:

a fiber is made of two strands lluq’i and paña.

A word is both root and suffix: two antithetical
meanings in one.
The word and the thread behave as processes in the
cosmos.

The process is a language and a woven design is a
process re-
presenting itself.

“An axis of reflection,” says Mary Frame:

“the serpentine
attributes are images of the fabric structure,”
The twisted strands become serpents
and the crossing of darkness and light, a diamond star.

“Sprang is a weftless technique, a reciprocal action
whereby the
interworking of adjacent elements with the fingers
duplicates itself
above and below the working area.”

The fingers entering the weave produce in the fibers
a mirror image of its movement, a symmetry that
reiterates “the concept
of complementarity that imbues Andean thought.”

*

The thread dies when it is released, but it comes alive in
the
loom:

the tension gives it a heart.

Soncco, is heart and guts, stomach and conscience,
memory,
judgement, and reason, the wood’s core, the stem’s
central
fiber.

The word and the thread are the heard of the
community.

In order to dream, the diviner sleeps on fabric made of
wik’uña.