The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

February 22, 2009

this morning
i thought i had only fourteen years to do anything at all
i worried that it was too late to continue playing new instruments
i felt my manuscripts were permanently unpublishable
i sorrowed over azure accompanying my life
i was grateful for azure's kindness, intelligence, beauty, compassion
i was saddened i could never learn another language
i shuddered over never leaving this godforsaken polluted new york loft
i feared we'd end up homeless and sick
i knew that somehow i should welcome death
i was cowardly in the face of welcoming
i was sure everyone thought the second life installation was a mistake
i felt i'd outworn my online welcome
i was positive the second life installation was too much too old too dead
i thought about my body collapsing from now until i died
i felt everything my body does now is a sign and a vector
i hated and feared death more than anything else
i cried over death and the fear of death and hopelessness
i thought i should get out of bed and get to work before it was too late
i thought there's not enough time left for anything but important things
i knew what was important and what wasn't for me
i mourned over the total loss of faith that brought me to this impasse
i tried to bypass fear and mourning and started studying physics
i studied physics and finished an eighteenth-century play
i read about sardinian music and internet pornography
i knew that nothing would work for long
i knew going online was temporary at best
i searched for distractions and found none
i cried over how little time i had left
i mourned over the vile and the fury
i thought the new worlds were dead, the old ones never alive
i thought nothing was ever alive
i considered suicide as a bypass
i thought the bypass would literally dead-end and then what
i contemplated the what
i wanted to leave as quickly as possible, the day slate-grey, external
turns nowhere of particular movement, as the world slowly disinvested
itself of me and my kind, of me, what sadness, oh.

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