Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.40.0110300417410.3591-100000@panix1.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: CYBERMIND@LISTSERV.AOL.COM
Subject: sick
Date: Tue, 30 Oct 2001 04:18:03 -0500
- 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. _