Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.64.0703231020250.1055@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: Forwarded mail....
Date: Fri, 23 Mar 2007 10:20:54 -0400 (EDT)
bols I don't know the bols. I play tabla. I play melody. I don't know where it comes from or where it goes. My eyes are closed. I sense the skins. I sense the rings. I sense the syahi. The puri is mine. The chutta are mine. The tabla sit on chutta. The chutta offer them to me. The chutta offers the dayan. The chutta offers the bayan. My eyes are closed. My fingers are nervous. My fingers move. I am going deaf. My tinnitus grows. The world is full of whine. The world is full of crickets. Of the dawn chorus. The dawn chorus stops for no hour. I fill my ears with glycerine. I place ten drops in each. In one I place twenty, My ears drip. My way is clear. My life is clear. I hear poorly. I swab my ears with witch hazel, I swab them with benzocaine. I am numb to the world. The world is a pretty picture. The world goes still. But I feel the tabla. But I feel the dayan and bayan. I feel the rhythm in the tips of my fingers. I feel the puri with my palms. I sway backwards and forwards. I sway to the left and the right. There is nothing to hear. There is nothing to hear in the world. There is nothing to see either. http://www.asondheim.org/slbody.jpg