The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


He can't get away from the face but doesn't realize it's not hollow, it's
disappearance, defuge. If he would only turn around! But he doesn't, he
thinks he's caught. Kira Sedlock and Foofwa d'Imobilite bring you the
shuddering of a man beside himself within himself, caught by solids.

It's untrue that, being caught, there's nothing catching one; the hard
inertia of substance pins one to the ground. But inscription offers the
last possibilities of play, the last chance to move, walk away from an
anonymous other, not even a thing. Sheave-skin ephemera hardly survive;
sustained by energy input from somewhere else ontologically at variance
with their world, they're wayward, contrary. They don't face anything
else, they never can. I thought of this man once, years ago, in the form
of an iron sphere somewhere in space. I thought something went on inside.

The first lesson I learned was absence. The second was the dream.

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.