The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


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sick


i am a sick man; i worry constantly that i am dying. my cholesterol is out
of control; i cannot find a doctor. heartburn is so bad i am debilitated
and often cannot function. i am off medication. i cannot sleep; tonight
again is a night full of nightmare and internal violence. it gnaws at me.
it produces my writing. it inhabits my videos. it crawls up my body. i
live with death. i know i will not live long. my brain has been acting up
- the left frontal lobe again. tinnitus has returned with a vengeance; i
hear you only through a high-pitched wine. it is hard to focus on anything
- sleeplessness leaves me nervous and irritable. i cry at the slightest
provocation; try me. my philosophy lives at the edge of my mind. there is
nothing but limit within me; i am striated. when i open my eyes the world
is an irregular grid. i am close to hysteria.

some one of these posts will be my last. i can feel it in my body. i can
feel it in my flesh. the absence... it will be a dropping-away; it will
take time. then you will know it's gone - the writing - the nervous tremb-
ling - the texts - the luridness - the philosophy of no-name. at that
point nothing will matter; the fadeout is endurable; the work drops out,
fades out. look: there are almost no books, no readings, no citations, no
presence. a skein within a skein - the residue of a blemish on the web.
but nothing outside of it - the work is dead. "chances are you have not
read this far." if you have you're one of four or five.

death: i feel it in my bones. i feel the crystals. i feel the cry of the
letters. death shakes them out.


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