The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive



Florid0: Water, ripples:
i can't remember anything any more. one person's
disaster is another person's pleasure. everyone has
had us, azure writes, writes alan. there is too much
water in the world, it flattens everything.

Florida: Azure, pool-side, jeans, red blouse pulled
up, mad (crazed) look in her eyes, seated:
i'll drown myself
and then i'll drown you

Floridb: Same as above, looking at camera:
then i'll drown everybody else

Floridc: Pool interior, distorted, from within:
you're out here i can
feel you

Floridd: Pool edge, ripples in blue-green water,
like skin:
then i'll drown everyone else

Floride: Azure at pool edge, same as above, leaning
back into the water, camera head-on:
late at night i lie here and i think of you, john,
and i think of you, susan, and i think of you,
david, i think of you fucking me, and i fall
backwards and i drown myself and i will take
you, i will take you with me

Floridf: Same as above, camera from side, Azure's
face ecstatic, ripples in blue-green water, like
i am thinking of you, may, and i am thinking
of you, george, and i am thinking, your mouths
are on me, your dead eyes are looking at me,
you are fucking me hard, you are dying there

Floridg: Alan, leaning back into water, t-shirt
and black jeans, exposed, shot from side, water
i'm thinking about everything, i'm writing you
into this, the way the world is, is awful, i'm out
of control, i'm aroused and writing this, this is
from my state to your own

Floridh: Azure, exposed, shot from beneath by
pool-side, black background:
cynthia, i want your tongue against me alan,
please don't be upset, jack, alan write me down,
peter, azure inscribes me, i am everything you
want, i am everything you could possibly want

Floridi: Azure, still naked from waist down,
astride pool-side left-hand beach chair, blue
shirt (right-hand chair empty, partially
i am mad. i am completely out of my mind.

Floridj: Alan naked, lying back, right-hand
beach chair (left-hand beach chair empty,
partially visible), camera head-on:
i'm writing this, azure in the drowning pool, she
takes her lovers with her, she says, they're not as
good as you are, they couldn't be, they're down
there, she's pointing, i'm aroused, this is the
beginning of the game, this is the ending: how
the world works and everyone dies

Floridk: Two empty beach chairs, adjustable
actually, the right-hand one partially supine, the
left-hand one partially erect, no text.


Azure and I live alone together. We have no friends. I think: We are
horrors. Again and again our story turns on us. Our story repeats like a
bad record. Our story decays. We go for a drive. We drive long and hard
and nowhere. There is nowhere to go. We return home. Sometimes I go and
teach. I face students. We leave. We get in the car and drive long and
hard and nowhere. We go and return and look at each other. We stare at
each other. We wrestle each other to the ground. We take our clothes off.
We put them on.  We strangle ourselves. We turn ourselves inside out.

We are walking advertisements for art and poetry. I swim in the black
pool, the blue-green pool like skin. I swim two lengths beneath the
surface. I have heard you can pass out and keep swimming. You can be
swimming and drowning underwater. The surface looks: You are alive, you
are perfect person. The depth looks up: You are still swimming and you are

How can you drown in so much beauty. We go to the pool and photograph. We
return for image and text, for art and poetry, for gimp and photoshop, for
perl and protocol, for process and program. Online we teeter on the brink
of culture. It is at the edge of the pool. The edge is an outline of
water. The apartment complex is Everglades reclaimed. At night I dream
alligators. I am ungainly; I can move fast, strike. No one is here. I am
thick-scaled, reptilian. My brain slips to edges. My brain swims. My brain
swims beneath.


Too much work on exposure. Too much exhibitionism, too much exhibition. As
if the body could be fixed, pierced, held in position. As if the world
were pure exchange. What other information we might provide.

Too many circuits of sexual tension, terror, power, language withdrawn in
the other face of the body, the other body of the face.

Work a caricature of itself. Stale work. Work which should have remained
stillborn. Dead work. Repetitive work. Work of the reflex arc, work of the


Tearing apart, artist and model. The apartment is silent. Azure reads
upstairs; I type this on a laptop borrowed from the university. The
university has closed down new media. New media is tainted, condemned.
Images leak out: Our exposure is that of the naughty politics of the
world. I keep quiet about my work at the school. I show no one. I am
close to slaughter.

I continue to swim submerged. At the edge, I will push and push off. I
will make the other side.


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