Begin in a cave. Listen to the floor boil with rodents, insects. Weep for the pups that have fallen. Later, you’ll fly the narrow passages of those bones, but for now —
open your mouth, out will fly names like Pipistrelle, Desmodus, Tadarida. Then, listen for a frequency lower than the seep of water, higher than an ice planet hibernating beyond a glacier of Time.
Visit op shops. Hide in their closets. Breathe in the scales and dust of clothes left hanging. To the underwear and to the crumbled black silks — well, give them your imagination and plenty of line, also a night of gentle wind.
By now your fingers should have touched petals open. You should have been dreaming each night of anthers and of giving to their furred beauty your nectar-loving tongue. But also, your tongue should have been practising the cold of a slippery, frog-filled pond.
Go down on your elbows and knees. You’ll need a spieliologist’s desire for rebirth and a miner’s paranoia of gases — but try to find within yourself the scent of a bat-loving flower.
Read books on pogroms. Never trust an owl. Its face is the biography of propaganda. Never trust a hawk. See its solutions in the fur and bones of regurgitated pellets.
And have you considered the smoke yet from a moving train? You can start half an hour before sunset, but make sure the journey is long, uninterrupted and that you never discover the faces of those Trans-Siberian exiles.
Spend time in the folds of curtains. Seek out boarding-school cloakrooms. Practise the gymnastics of web umbrellas.
Are you floating yet, thought-light, without a keel on your breastbone? Then, meditate on your bones as piccolos, on mastering the thermals beyond the tremolo; reverberations beyond the lexical.
Become adept at describing the spectacles of the echo — but don’t watch dark clouds passing across the moon. This may lead you to fetishes and cults that worship false gods by lapping up bowls of blood from a tomb.
Practise echo-locating aerodromes, stamens. Send out rippling octaves into the fossils of dank caves — then edit these soundtracks with a metronome of dripping rocks, heartbeats and with a continuous, high-scaled wondering about the evolution of your own mind.
But look, I must tell you — these instructions are no manual. Months of practice may still only win you appreciation of the acoustical moth, hatred of the hawk and owl. You may need
to observe further the floating black host through the hills.