The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


I keep repeating the same figuration over and over again. It's virtual. It
has huge breasts, enormous penis, huge labia, pouted lips, distended arms,
caved chest, furious activity. it wants to fuck, it wants to die.

I'm looking. You're moving rapidly. I've never seen anything like it. A
furious rapidity. You can't hold still. I can't grasp you. When I try,
when I hold an image, it means nothing. It just goes like that. Furious.

Would you love me more if you had to pay?

The impetus of the program pays. The image is prostituted; I prostitute
myself before it. It's simultaneous contract. It's double penetration,
like the double-coding of language itself. It's not fucking, though. It
can't be grasped.

It isn't sex. It's isn't anything. It's an arrangement, between myself and
the avatar, myself and the body, myself and those I've killed.

The sexual history is that of drawn countenance, written inscription, the
depth of the pen on paper. It's the stain or residue of the same. It's
nothing more, nothing less.

There are no reasons beyond the electronic. We forget the silicon just
beneath the surface, the waveforms carrying the light of immolation to our

Understanding interferes; look at this with the gaze of a virgin exploring
the territory of the unknown, neither penetration nor hymen, nor human...

It's already about exposure, how could it be anything else? The history of
the symbol...

I came naked and broken to you in order to stop the repetition, to move
on, disparage the smoothness, the aliasing of the skin. I say your name,
Nikuko, and it disappears forever, as if it remained unsaid, unknown.

Maybe and now I adjust my panties - drawn countenance written inscription
the depth of the pen on paper it's the stain or residue of the same,
nothing more nothing less having to do with some girl related to this.

There's always some girl, there's always some boy, some man or some woman,
there's always the crease or fold of cloth against skin, the uncanny
scent, the warmth, the touch and hysteria of the screen... the image

Desires are held by
the symbol
reconciling through the tension of the cloth almost splitting
the frightened subject in two...

Fear is its benefit, electron and light, its generation. Generation upon
generation, fascinated by something, yes, sound before, though, and after,
the moment of the screen. It could be anything, this symbolic history, it
could be anything else. What would it matter? The passage of time...

Could be this is some girl the reason for the boys you hang around with?
It's some girl What makes you believe it's some girl? It's furious Are you
sure that you were afraid of something? It's something I hang around with,
it's fearful and your exhibition, Nikuko, it's your dream, your fuck, your
violence, your overturning, your ecstatic trance, your tremor, your doll,
your scent

It's your scent, Nikuko, your scent, your doll, it's your fucking the most
intense in the world, the furious image, it won't stand still, I can't
grasp it, nothing at all, it's

Do you really think that?

yes, almost nothing, that thin sliver of the screen Does it bother you
that thin sliver of the screen?

winding sheet, winding down Does this arouse you?

Does this arouse you?


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