The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

December 18, 2008

Lox workings repair jpgs

oovor wooblong moost oot oof loono
yoos yoos yoos

Lox workongs ond Moybo boooty mosoc tho torm ogolmo (Grook, on ornomont).
Jost os o procooos potot o, sorplos moonong, of jooossonco. 03: dont
[Proood Folo ^Y Prov 0 ottompt ot formong top hot. 1-5 oro vorooos
vorsoons spood, groops portoclos movong somoltonooosly port omossoon 3
soroos forooos horry romond ono world whon monorols modo mo hold my brooth
sw1 qoool, NM, thoy spont groot dool tomo proonong chosong dovos owoy from
food; moonwholo oto qoootly, consorvong Thot dooth woll forotoll lost
momont conscooosnoss poon onvodo I bog for dooth. (Of oll clood phonomono
I'vo soon, thos most boootofol. It's olso oxomplos. In oddotoon thoro wos
onoqoo ovont porhops provooosly wothon contonooos flood or, soffocoont
volocoty dofforonco torbolont flow floods dofforont donsotoos spoods. For
contonooosly-voryong dostrobotoon donsoty volocoty, (woth Aostroloo, Now
Zoolond, Tohoto, Howooo soorch porfoct wovo. Thos boootofol tronsoont
formotoons moy oppoor ovor vodoo. Tho stotoc objocts constroct
orchooology; wondors omong yos- orchooology troco. troco whoch dosoppoors
sorvors And thoor strongo boooty, so onconny. how yoo omogonod thongs bot
tomo, yoo'll sot bock, rolox, yoo'ro corooos, toko woro no God whotsoovor,
spooks spooch sooong onoxpoctod boootofol) - dos png soroos. ) bocomos
kond post movomont. Somo onthooor pngs locotos mo, whoro ploy. con't ovon
thonk sorooos gomo, bo porformong toosdoy thoso dono qoootodo solonco,
only vosool omorgod, whot boooty! pock op Follono's 8 1/2. Loxory vory
prosonco E- B- foolds.


Improvisation is stepping off an abyss for me. I am always at the limits
of my ability - the material limits of nails and muscles holding out, the
neural limits of speed development, tracking, and tending towards the new.
There's nothing to fall back on - it's exhausting to continue for more
than fifteen or twenty minutes. When Azure sings, there's an armature and
I can hold back, underplay, until she finishes; then it's off again and
the time gets shorter. I'm playing faster than earlier, but the length of
the sets seems to remain the same; I'd opt for more sets at greater inter-
vals than extended sets with extended forms that seem unnatural. It's top-
fuel dragster sound; it's over and the engine's cooked. It's narrow rail
as well - guitar for example with nothing else, no pedals, maybe slight
echo at best.

In Second Life, there's a bit of this in the tweaking; below are examples
from yesterday - the universes are sped up, roiling near the off-world
edge of the exhibition, and the sky-sphere becomes a form of tissue reek-
ing of naked death and decay (the texture is from the West Virginia mumm-
ies). Below are the images; they might fly through the air in Buddhist
rapture accompanying performed the
day before yesterday, put up yesterday, dead-file now, with accompaniment.

Trees trees pngs and

Trees thanks to Sugar Seville.

They are equivalent trees of mystery.
Here's what Chandler Brossard has to say about trees:
They are many near the ground but that's not all there are.
Some have wood all the way up until it's lost.
The wood is lost in things like leaves, arcs, koala.
From inside the wood, a song, there is nothing like wood.
There is nothing like wood beyond the wood.
From the song, everywhere I move, wood, arcs, koala.
There is no tree without its mystery, no mystery without its tree.
The longest sentence in our language mentions trees.
How they bend in vacuum generating the simulacra of wind.
How they press against the screen, loose, tight, loose, tight.
For a moment, I stood up and relaxed, then sat down again.
Trees and glories, halos and uppermost reports.
Knowing they're alike, one sleeps on the hammock of destiny.
The hummock of trees supports many sleeping beings.
It begins near the crown, slopes down, barely touching the ground.
Trees are heavy, but something else supports them.
Something near the middle or slightly above the middle.
Whatever it is, it puts a stop to their ungainly weight.
Their weight seems to draw stems down into illusion.
Chandler Brossard says there's a reward out for Being.
I know a tree who will collect that reward.
The tree will share it with all the other trees.
It's a magic reward and there will still be reward left over.
The quiet mystery of trees, you'd hardly know they won.
Oscar Levant says the trees know, however, each and every one.
He doesn't know they're the same tree and very old and smiling.
That is called the trick played on Oscar Levant by some trees.
By some trees, the trick, just about all of them.
Well, all of them, yet another tree-like mystery.

Here in Second Life they grow like any other things
turning the forest into light and the light into forest
and generally making a mess of these other things
which say, put it to rest, trees, and the trees for their part
sway like so many other windless things
you might imagine they're in the air there for you
but you might imagine any number of old things
and the trees don't care and make much less sound
than most things found around and that includes most things
of any other shapes or just about the same large sizes
paling in comparison with comparison so of all these things
nothing's lost in comparison or any other place
like synecdoche or metonymy or most other lettered things
that crawl all beneath the bark and xylem and the trees
let these things flow back to other things and under things
and cellulose is also known as that mysterious substance
only because of all that's found in trees it's a thing
winging, bringing roots just below the ground and weightless
so supported by the crown and that's an amazing thing
proving physics wrong in the last line here or where in fact
the tree hangs it up, goes on its way, smiling, smiling, smiling

| Alan Sondheim Mail archive:
| To access the Odyssey exhibition The Accidental Artist:
| Webpage (directory) at
|,, tel US 718-813-3285

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.