The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

September 9, 2001


as long as i can write, she dreams

nikuko wakes up, it's a bed of roses, kanji etched by thorns cutting deep
into her, blood streaming out of her

listen: without the brush of the calligrapher, signs flow, written to the
real - blood streaming across her breasts, down her thighs, paralleling,
converging where her legs meet and part

lying, she reads dendy: 'It is clear, at least, that the deep interest of
the subject of reflection overbalances the influences of the external sen-
ses. The impression of objects is either too slight or rapid to produce
perception (in other words); however the impression may be imparted to the
brain by the nerve, the brain is not _sensible_ of it, and there is there-
fore no perception.  So intense, indeed, has been this influence, that
Pliny contemplated the volcanic philosophy amid the ashy cloud of Vesuvius
by which he was destroyed.'

in blood, she thinks of the _capital_ idea: within the marks of quotation,
everything is permitted

bleeding, she thinks of the ashy cloud inscribing the philosophy of the
world, learning to read from the world, after all is said and done

death is never a writing; she has been far too long journeying, only to
return with this capital idea, that of the calligraphy of the world, con-
ditioned by natural topographies, as the blood flows from her body
distended by thorns, at first the appearance of the 'river' character,
coupling into 'mountains,' 'roots'

she turns and turns, naked against the bushes, draining her body; lizards
watch her, birds watch over her

she is writing the world into existence, she is no longer speaking

writing and writing


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