Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.64.0901280732480.13453@panix1.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: Forestry in Odyssey and Debris Field interference
Date: Wed, 28 Jan 2009 07:33:08 -0500 (EST)
Forestry in Odyssey and Debris Field interference "This is a radical transformation of the Odyssey installation from the Debris Field installation." (below) These worlds don't stave off death. Nothing does. Not a single word. I feel like a relic playing with ESP-Disk, 'one of the original recording artists.' I should fumble around on my instrument, cough a lot. I should have stories to tell and talk about friends I miss. I should say I know I'm too old to take up another instrument or learn Japanese for example or even travel. I should say traveling exhausts me. I should be grateful for the chance to play in public again. For the chance to play. A chance for young people to see what I do. A chance to say I still have my chops. I should putter around the stage and smile and thank all you good folks. You good folks out there. These worlds stave off nothing. My truth is banal: if I cease to innovate or somehow in my book, if not yours, cease to be culturally relevant, cease to be relevant, begin to become a case, 'the case of' - I should be done away with; if I cease to wonder, if I dwell too much on death and 'earth to earth' (and I am close to that), I should be anesthetized, put out of my misery. Words stave off nothing. There are no books to burn; there are books to burn but theory lies in ashes; I fumble for readers - if you're reading this, you're probably unique - for publishers - nothing of the sort, not that chap again, too much online, save the trees - the petrochemical industry - for someone else. His works are vacuous - he can't learn another language - he can't even speak Japanese - sooner or later he'll drop that guitar - his vision's blurred, he won't be able to find it - you can see he's withdrawing - down a potential well - there's no way out - there's not the energy to get out - he's fumbling down there - he thinks he has an audience - he's playing something or other - we can't hear him - he's deaf as well - did you know he recorded for ESP way back then - amazing he's still alive - still around - wonder what he thinks of them now - don't bother asking - he'll stumble around an answer - mumbles a lot, you can't always hear what he's saying. Of misery, put him out. Of insomnia, give him sleep. Of dead friends, give him nothing. Of Japanese, sayonara. Of Second Life, too much of the first. Of life, stupidity in the second. You can make whole worlds come crashing down, you can make them physical, you can dream they come from the screen, out of the screen - they're coming for you - whirring too fast, once they're made you can't do anything about them, they're too quick for you - you can shut the whole thing down, return everything, nothing but manifolds there were, nothing but singularities and trajectories were there, nothing but point sets there were, nothing but patching were there, nothing but stitching there were, nothing but words were there. This is a radical transformation of the Odyssey installation from the Debris Field installation. Do go to the Odyssey site if you can; check out the pngs below as well. The Odyssey site: http://slurl.com/secondlife/Odyssey/48/12/22 http://www.alansondheim.org/ forestb pngs These are some sort of transformation, these are some kind of change, these are a waste of time, these are hypnagogic, hallucinatory, mesmeric, oneiric, these are manufactured beauty, these are a collaboration between Louise Brooks and Hedy Lamarr, they call them false images or codes. I fumble for the codes, kludge the codes, I hold worlds in my hands, I produce nothing, I produce nothing. Fumbled worlds in my hands, I produce nothing.
