The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


(From http://www.asondheim.org/biog.txt -)


2007 almost: This memo, memorial, memory, memory-graph, meme, remembrance, 
autobiography, reminiscence, mnemonic, skitters back-and-forth; it remains 
undone; there's nothing of _thought_ in it; what remains are events; they're 
already dissolving; I can't "believe" events.

2007 This is the year beginning in cold rain. I think about the biog.txt to 
date - not only skittering, but awkwardly written - an occasional turn of 
phrase as if it makes any difference. There are no New Years resolu- tions - 
just to continue with music / video / texts etc. Everything (when I think of 
it) appears scattered; the biog.txt represents so little of the world I've 
inhabited, or dreamed of inhabiting. It's an attempt to corral the scattering 
of my material culture, memories, after my death. When you read this, think 
that behind every word was a Proust, behind every Proust, yet another. And how 
worlds shatter, imminent, with death! - What has been ordered, treasured, 
conceived - what has been familiar, loving, cherished as the pages of a book 
are cherished - becomes the debris of others - everything is torn asunder, 
wounded, just as the world falls apart, less and less rebuilt elsewhere. Think 
of these sections, then, as the last remnant of coherency - what remains of an 
infinite richness of thought. Worlds devolve words devolve, hold fast, at least 
momentarily, past the living body, sunk into living language. Everything else, 
except perhaps for Azure, for Joanna, leaves and forgets the shattering which 
releases, not light, but order returned to substance. There is more to me than 
there is to the sun, to any star; there is less and less upon inclement return. 
And today, yesterday on the cusp, the announcement of the 3kth soldier to die 
in Iraq, all worlds, words, crashing to the ground, revised in the false 
resurrection of the war memorial. The rain falls against orders, against 
commands; we're lost, against all odds.

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