Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.62.0505100151120.20890@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>,
"WRYTING-L : Writing and Theory across Disciplines" <WRYTING-L@LISTSERV.UTORONTO.CA>
Subject: xersized
Date: Tue, 10 May 2005 01:51:20 -0400 (EDT)
xersized anything for some stability. i want to continue to live here. i'm a mess. everything is changing. we are going away for three and a half months. almost four months. our cat will be left behind. where is my daughter, my father, where are my closest friends. i know how to walk anywhere here with my eyes closed. i want to work on my essays. i'm too tired. i want to think clearly. i dream of a clean white university like a pure white room with space for writing and students at the door. i dream of conversations well into the night and a community of thinkers and advancements i could never have conceived on my own. i think of adequate health-care and no more stress or insomnia or pains or those troubles which tender an early death. in the white room where there is health care and good meals and azure and i take walks in the bracken and it is in the middle of new york city and there is the latest and greatest coming down the street marching down the street and every street in fact. i am a misspent and misconfigured life and a life that has missed down to the very root of things. i want to wake up and not feel desperate just for a day an hour just for a minute. i want to keep despair to keep age illness death at the door. do not mind me if i die but not at the door not at the door of the white room while we travel across the country in a high speed old car and crash somewhere outside nebraska before kansas after utah below montana to the right of ohio to the left of arkansas. we will survive and we will be stable and just as now and computers and cameras will scatter furiously and disappear in this most unstable of dreams i cannot leave and which is killing me. i am always in a state of mourning a continuous state of mourning and when did i begin to write in run on sentences as if the comma were another prison. there is mourning and there is mourning and it is yet the nature of depression to mourn for the smallest things the tiniest things in the world as if the world were in the constancy of failure which it is. we ignore the world to breathe and if we saw the world with the clarity of true and proper vision we would back fall in a false swoon the breath gone out from us. we would back fall because we would unstable because the world would sadden and unstable us. oh for a stable world for a white room where i can think even just for a moment even the slightest thought. of which this is not one. of which this could not possibly be one. or could it, i just don't know. _