The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

Grim(e) Day

This has been a grim day. Whenever I speak with my father, his hatred
manages to hit home. From his viewpoint I'm a failure. He's been paying my
health insurance; otherwise I'd die which might not be that much of a dis-
pleasure to him. Thinking about this there were voices in my head which
managed to expand into a world I prayed was out there, but am certain was
just going on between cortex and ego. Yes, things manage to leap ontolo-
gies just like that, the sign of madness. I listened to crystal, worked on
rearrangement, all those voices spewed into the aether through systems of
coils echoing one another, . I
began to recognize the mockery of dissonance, played music and toppled the
line upon itself with echos and delays as I thought what to do next, in
the meantime beginning world-building once again with universal harmony, By this time I was raging
in tears fighting myself repeatedly, not that my health has been in good
shape, it hasn't. I'm as far from my family as an event horizon filled
with nothing worthwhile. I curled into myself. I curled farther into
myself, I thought myself monad, I thought myself rage, I thought myself
consort, I stopped thinking, I began again with the harmony of monads
purring softly in molecular air, ,
open the windows, monads and let the soft flow healing in, the curing of
rage against the selves swells to uncanny beauties that never makes the
pain worthwhile.

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