Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.63.0603160118330.17010@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: The Hurtling Towards Death (& Millennium reminder)
Date: Thu, 16 Mar 2006 01:20:18 -0500 (EST)
(Reminder that the Millennium show is this Saturday; please come if you can. - Thanks, Alan) The Hurtling Towards Death follows =========================== The Hurtling Towards Death O Dance apostrophic, embrace death, the body fails and falters, expends what remains of its energetic treasure. Forestalled by documentation's impoverishment, your slightest gesture remains unfulfilled, latent, lax, amidst the machinery of calculation, rigid ordination of numbers. Translation of Dance, the capturing of death, its swallowing by ordinal- ordination, the descent to the floor or basement of the binary, what is analogic reproduced by raster tending towards the infinitely fine. What is missing - What is missing are two wildly disparate orders of calculation, of mobility itself, orders which only approximate one another through techne and speech, code and partition. One order, that of the calculated, the production of parallel numerical streams representing movement and the muscle-mind of the Dancer (who is technically _the Danced,_ the one who _is Danced_ by the Dance), and the other, the frequency-laden irreducible neural spill of mental activity, electrical, emission and spew. For the mind-breath, O Dance! is reproducible only by itself, maps only onto itself as itself, inasmuch as the ordinal-ordination-ordinateur of the Dance reads and writes you as input/output, perhaps infinitely parallel streams, nonetheless perhaps not even clocked, nonetheless, across that gulf of into- or onto- mappings, or rather mappings with continuously-modifying metrics, nano-second by nano-second, there's no end to it, no beginning. O Dance! you're nothing more than the ordinary-ordination body moving through space, the body of itself, at rest in and of itself, the blessing of the incontrovertible complexity of the world, its inhering. Any reduction quietly speaks and conjures the factory, automaton, robotics of precision and repetition. O Dance! We're not speaking of life-force, we're murmuring the litany of the infinitely-small, surrounded by shells and carapaces of computers-ordinators, maternal-paternal projection against the pulled muscle, the sprain, the torn ligament, the bruise. And O Dance! We would make of you an entire world, cosmos-Dance, ocean-Dance, particle- Dance, what would we do with that? Impossible of representation, humans never give up trying, violating voice and mind, ordinal representation (and who said nothing about the nuggets of the cardinal?), the numerical cut, the definition. Jump to edit-points, application of points, applique. An imposing edifice! Numerical-numb, the prisoner of flesh, the Dancer-manque-Danseuese - Technology of stage and lights, phenomenologies of distribution - O Dance, dream aloud! Dream quietly! _