The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

some granular

moire patterns (large)

I don't want you to forget me. I don't want you to think I'm a nuisance. I
want you to know what my work's about. I want you to know it's poetics and
philosophy and it can be whatever you want it to be. You have to know
death the dead the death. You have to know they thought I'd be dead at
twenty-five. That I'd be dead at fifty. I thought I'd do Mozart at fifty.
I thought I'd be dead at forty-eight. My body is beginning to burn. My
body is burning up. My cells are dying faster and faster. I'm writing
faster than ever. I don't want you to think I'm out of fashion. I don't
want you to think all I do is make little mannequins jump around on stage.
I don't want you to think all I know are dirty words and dirty pictures. I
want you to know there's thought behind everything I do. I don't want you
to think I'm making art too fast too sloppy too unedited too quick too
arrogant too depressive too miserable too sick too abject too slick too
grotesque too contorted too maudlin too self-serving too much too thick
too repetitive too worthless too ugly. I don't want to defend myself. I
want you to see what I'm doing. I don't want you to think I'm too egoist
too egotistical too obscure too messy too narcissistic too
autobiographical too diaristic too much about nothing too dumb about
something. I don't want to lose you and I've already lost you. I want to
see you and my eyes my eyes. I want to follow you and my feet my feet. I
want to think you to think through you to think before you to think beyond
you and my brain my brain and my mind my mind. Oh things are as they have
always been. Oh the blackness is as it has always been. Oh death is on the
threshold. O Death do not be deceived. O You in pain and comfort this is
philosophy. O You in sicknesse unto death, thou readest between the lines,
thou readest line after line in desultory order, thou readest across and
through fallen lines, thou readest among broken and contorted lines, thou
readest across the surface of the differend, thou are drawn along, thou
art deferred, thou supersede thyself, do not desert me, I beg of thee, do
not desert me, one or another drawn from the past into the paste, drawn
from futility into the future, drawn from presence into the present. Do
not come with me unto an Other Land, retard me, hold me back, repress me,
restrain me, restrict me, curtail me. Oh I do not want you to forget me,
what I have written, what I have attempted to achieve, what I have
achieved, already in these fourteen years, already in these fifteen years,
in these sixteen years. For this is the length of an onslaught not
slaughter, and this is wavelength, not wave, neither the short nor the
long of it, the tall or the quick of it, the slow or the fast of it. This
is philosophy through image under erasure, through dusk-dawn imaginary,
through the shuffled feathers of the nighthawk in impenetrable swoop, this
is herald, this is all I can think of truth, ground, foundation, premise,
hypothesis, lemma, fabrication, shifting, shifter, effacement, disappear-
ance, evanescence, illumination, darkness and luminosity neither miracle
nor spirit, quantum in our effecting the world affecting ourselves and
difference spreading like plague across canon and genre, classic and
period alike.

blender/poser image manipulation transformed into 'old photo' thru gimp,
using mottling, border, sepia; the result is simulacrum of steam-punk

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