The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


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.

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