The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

April 13, 2006



various new work also @

THEORY is not far behind... I have a show (with Leslie Thornton, Foofwa
d'Imobilite, Azure Carter) opening in Los Angeles in six weeks, god I'm
unprepared, such a huge space, no idea what to do about it! We've got
projections everywhere but linking quicktime to play on alien hardware?
Nothing fits like a bad dance. Images pour out of my mouth. I want to
write so badly! Last night I dreamed of a chalk-white body-flesh built
into a wall, no wait, it was a wall! I was scratching thin lines in blue
and red on it! Wait, the lines were through something, a thin layer like
eggshell, the wall was behind, it wasn't eggshell. I began to think, in
twelve years I'll be seventy-five! I haven't done anything! Nothing
worthwhile! What will become of Azure? Of our world which is rich beyond
anything I could have imagined! Today for example I found Confessions of a
Magnetist by Alphonse Teste in German, translated from the French, around
1840. Truly remarkable! There's an illustration, I'll photograph it, a
young woman laying back, not supine, no, in a chair, salon environs, there
is a small audience. Precursors of Svengali and Trilby! But this man isn't
Jewish, there's none of that taint as far as I can see. No, this was
novelty at the time! Unusual! He could have his way with her, I'm sure!
But there are too many people around! I'll treasure the image forever!
I'll put it in the show! Scopophilic avatars, no wait! Scopophilics
scoping out avatars! Scoping and feeling avatars! Supine! Neurasthenic!
Hungering! Hungry ghosts prowling limbs of young women! Young men! Horses!
(Read descriptions!) Me? I can only mold them, limbs, breasts, penises,
vaginas, arms, legs, torsos, did I say heads? There are lips, eyes, I can
make them hungry! Hungered! Haughty, but not for long! I'll devour them,
remodel them! They're mine, mine! On the altar of all that is Holy, they
are mine!

@ click on goodgrief

sday, April 13, 2006
Well, goodgrief, me and the missus were out at an eatery when we ran into
old friends, we well had a time of it, and thought you might too. Is this
what is meant by a digital life? I don't believe for a second in anything
except human inertia, intransigence. What is here remains until the final
slaughter. The prime mover? The superstructure itself, as power coagulates
like a blood-wound around the head of state. Every day, fury increases,
elsewhere. When it arrives, this talk, this useless talk, will end.

When the silent film comedians moved to talkies, they found themselves
hampered by studio executives, directorial authority, time constraints.
They exist between two worlds; every moment might be a triumph, but is in
reality the collapse of the body beneath capital.

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