The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


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Of the Latter Days and what you might hear


And of unto your inner worlds, where you must die. It makes no difference,
whether you make peace. And of course one always hopes that embracing the
worst, overcomes. And of course that is a myth. We have not escaped the
fire, to speak.

Do not make peace. For whom shall you make peace. Do not seek your hearts.
For whom shall you seek your hearts.

...

This is temporary. You may not receive this. You may receive this only on
a temporary basis. With the proliferation of small-scale nuclear devices,
the Internet is in imminent danger of collapse. There may be days, weeks,
months, a few years, left. This is the end-game of culture. Your knowledge
is useless. Don't fret our media.

But it is a privilege to read this. It is a privilege to witness the
curtain coming down on the future. It is a privilege to recognize that
little will remain on the other side - that later, much later, something
else might inscribe similar words to these.

Later, much later, something else might read them, but not these, but
others.

There are too many bombs; there is the untoward simplicity of the bomb. It
is human to hate, human to take out one's enemy at the risk of one's life.
Sacrifice is the core and kernel of being human; hate is the shell that
derives destruction.

These lines are written between one destruction and another, between one
and another finality. They are produced on the road to another's paradise
and the dissembling of our own.

...

The world frantically holds peace concerts. The world frantically produces
beautiful music reaching throughout heavens and earths. The world produces
books, fashion, songs, operas, magazines, articles, psalms, poems, epics,
sculptures, paintings, puppet-shows, cinema, theater, whole literatures,
all in the name of peace. The world produces screams, terrors, whimpers,
moans, cries and whispers, all begging for peace, caterwauling for peace,
yelling for peace.

Human beings scurry in all directions. Plants burn. Rivers burn. Animals
are blinded. Lesions develop. There are rumors of bombs. There is no
electric. Servers and routers are silenced.

I will stand up and sit down. I will be the prophet of the last and latter
days. I will type on dying keyboards, dead laptops. My words are the words
of truth. My words die from crippled fingers. My words die in ten throats.
My words die in one. My words are lesions.

...

Countdown. This is written from the future to the past. This has already
been written. This will already have been written. This will already have
not been read.

Not by us. Not by something else.

Listen: We are all dead. Listen: It is too late now. The poison is here.
Listen: It is time to make our peace. Listen: It is time to listen to
ourselves. This is the end of the sentence to which we are sentenced.

No one will make peace. No one will listen to another. It is the nature of
being human. It is human to hate. It is human to act on that hate. We will
dance until we are burned alive. We will dance with our lesions. We will
dance and destroy. We will go to heaven. We will take you with us.

It takes only one. Technology: It takes less than one. One minus one is
zero. It will take nothing. It will take nothing at all.

Hello Pakistan will you not listen to us. Give us your weapons. Hello USA
please listen to us. Give us your weapons. Hello India, Israel, China,
France, Germany, Belgium, England, Russia, Sumer, Latvia, Babylonia, Chad,
Japan, Italy, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Canada, give us your weapons.

We will take your weapons and we will beat them into weapons. We will take
your weapons and we will make a column of ash and smoke, fire and debris,
radiation and cloud, from pole to pole, an axis of fury, an axis of death
and destruction. We will cleanse the earth. We will boil the oceans. We
will flood the lands. We will freeze the oceans. We will burn flesh. We
will fuck our enemies. We will arrive in paradise. We will arrive in
heaven. We have removed our enemies. We have removed your enemies. We do
this out of our own goodwill, out of the hearts of men. We do this out of
kindness and charity. We have removed their hearts.

...

But we write between one destruction and another. At the risk of boring
you: We write between one destruction and another. We write into the air
air we breathe. We write through the slaughter, onslaught of lesions
always already among us. We write through our sickness. We write for the
decades of routers and servers. We write for the years of wireless, months
of optical, weeks and days of pdas, minutes of broadband, seconds of
remaining life. We write for audience of one, for audience of one-half,
for audience already tending towards zero. We write for the terror among
us and the success of that terror, and its end.

We write for an improbable length. It takes nothing. It takes nothing at
all.

We write for our lesions, our implacable hatreds. It takes nothing. It
takes nothing at all.

We write in order to kill. We write against one another. There is no other
writing. We write the enunciation of slaughter. We write its emancipation.

We write in order to be silenced. We write in order to be successful. We
are successful. We write for an irrational number.

It is a matter of time; it is a matter of nothing else. And we write for
the silence to follow. We are at the end of days. We are of the end. We
are the meat of the end, the flesh of the end. We are of the flesh and its
lesions.

We are not improbable. We are not improbable at all. We are most probable.
Of this I am sure: We are most probable.

It takes nothing. It takes nothing at all.

...


- from a midrash


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