The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


Text for Geneve performance this Freitag


Dance. How can I make this entertaining? We shall witness
men and women amputated at the brain! They cannot think!
They can only dance! Dansez Dansez! Oui, c'est tout! Pourquoi?
They are ne real pas, ils dansez le "reel." I make a map of this
dance. Je fabrique un plan von der Unterwelt. They have no legs.
They have no arms. Quel dommage! Pourqoi? POURQUOI?
Parceque ce'st mois! La Divine! Ceas vrai! Wirklich! I will make
their interieures! Inside them! You will see!

Dance, alas, how can I ever make sense? Together we shall see
human beings with brains and minds cut out! They can't think!
They never could! All they can do is dance! Well, really, is
that all? Why for the Sake of God! They're not real now, are
they? They dance the reel! They dance the jig! I'll make a
pretty picture of this dance! I'll make a map of the Underworld!
They have no legs! They don't have arms either! They don't have
brains either! They don't have minds either! This is terrible
damage! I am a cheese! Why, WHY? For the love of the Dear Lord!
Because it's me! I made them! I'm the Author of the World! The
Divine! The Divine Sarah Bernhardt! The Jew! It's True! Really!
I will make their interiors! We'll go inside them! You and I,
we'll go inside their bellies! We'll wear the Pubic Hair! You'll
see! Just wait! You'll see!

Bonjour, salaam, shalom, hello! I will kill myself! Why is this
night different from all other nights? Because I am here? These
are my people! My little people! They run around the room! I
play my harmonica for you. A little aire, a tiny aire, surely
something you have heard before?

Hello, yes, peace be with you, hello! I commit suicide! Humans
must die so that the world survive? On Chanukah I fled. Is
Geneva safe for Jews? They are my people! My avatars! My little
people! They run around everywhere, underfoot. I will play a
song, a little aire, a jig or rondelay! I'm sure you have heard
everything already. In English we say, "I've heard everything!"
"I've heard enough!"

I send my voice my voix my Sprechstimme my Alpine Chough across
Space and Grid. Grid breaks space. Une grille for viande. Yes,
it is True. Space breaks on Grid, Space is lost, gone. What
remains is Grid. I can say une Grille? C'est possible? Oui? Non?
Dienstag. Space Crackles: craqueter. There are sparks, etin-
celles; the Grid disturbs Volume. VOLUME IS A SICKNESS, maladie.
Of this I am certain. WHAT IS INSIDE, IS OUTSIDE. WHAT IS OUT-
SIDE, IS INSIDE. Empty the balloons! Videz les ballons!

I send my voices across the wires, Schoenberg's voices, the
sounds of birds in the Alps, across the universe, Descartes,
Cartesian. The universe is meat, it's true. The universe cooks
the universe, watch out! The fire sparkles, crackles! But here:
VOLUME IS A SICKNESS: there are no things but interiors. From
which some light remains, inside, indoors, next to the fire, in
the kitchen. The balloons from the birthday party deflate!
They lose air! Empty the balloons! Long live the balloons!

We breathe, we suffocate; we are numbered: Abu Gharayb, Bergen-
Belsen, Baghdad, Saigon. The others, Les Autres, are always
numbered. Regardez-moi: not 650000 dead in Baghdad, les mortes,
but 650,000 - you see? The number divides, the number is divided
- the comma, virgule, makes all the differance (vide Derrida).
DO WE NOT BREATHE AS ONE PERSON? ARE WE NOT HUMAN? souffler,
suffoquer. My little figures... they are not real... alors...

We breath or try to breath; we are robbed of air. Every one is
a number, 1,2,3, towns and prisons, Auschwitz Tibet Beirut, in
Amerika we have secrets. In Amerika we torture. Amerika is not
my country, slaughter-house Amerika. Torturer. My Amerika is
not real. My Amerika swallows my America.

It was different back then... our history, our armoire...

My little figures... they are not real... When I make them, I
travel through them. Then... they are flat, flattened... plat,
platitude, pur. dhamman saranam gacchami langue parole langage
baggage bagage. My cornemuse. My avatars speak with a thousand
voices. Mon poupees.

My dying people, my fucking people, they're real and they're
not real. When they make me, they travel through me. Then, I'm
blown up like a poupee, a balloon, a corset in disguise. Take
refuge in the truth, in unknown languages, encased in bagpipes.
Yes, Languages in bagpipes! It's true, it's still true! My
avatars murmur constantly, you can hear them just beneath the
surface, in my heart, my little gasps of air, my little dolls.

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