The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

September 19, 2009

r for the tree upswing

r for l tree  where it might n ok for ex physi k for exmple."
ription  tion to n ny, you might think h seems omplete - n omplete - n n h
  n-imensione  in the s imensione me of trees  h mens there n es, n
  geo ll this esi tion, tht of the semiotiis the twist per se  the twist t
not nnihil- , nnihil- ut inform e-time is presene l gr s well  it is
le, methe twist is me urvture  in philosophisure of lo ture  in philosophi
  tlk of , lk of n energy-momentum s if one n energy-momentum oul se s
everything up into zero or one  the

re ut never ree h the zero point  there ies slow,

mentl nts of ment ginst noise, tuning  lw inst noise, tuning    is never
the sys pl   is never the sme ys me g s tuning   ,  ,  , ut neither is it
  import ognition of the inheren erutting  the "myth of eternking,
hes the temporl or m  l or y the time one re sptie eing-humn, it l s omes
  fiels of insom s of insription, however ins, ription, however n efine  in
nities, inet le ipher- mong the hum e nothing left for us to o "

ontin nuomplete in nuity  they're up , whi ity  they're up h sons, ut
foofw zure, vi horeogrphy, zure, vieogrphy, phy n/ phy  turing foofw
  swy o y ily movement  weight of reles, penis  = hum les, penis  =
ionysin ritutes the n rituls to o ls to y to everything from er, others
  extensions ries of the ttoos, shveo rs, uts, h uts, ruises  ir, s ruises
ls the oging, illness, sp ility  ging, illness, spy's tot ging, illness,
spsms  lity/vulner sms

ription horeogr ies  ring simil llel strutures with l oper tures with
tions  p e

    sie, r y move towru s self-reflexivity e m ers' movements  i.e. ' the
utening, et. , their own mus . , nother form of self- les remem nother
\ n lyst for rous\ rousl   l  t ers' eret nipples, penis - l   t nipples,
spsms  lity/vulner < horeogrphi > horeogrphi rition horeogr ity on wepp
  s z into lf step
lf step  /e lowere on re iny fternoon, y,

out the ook  there st time. i ook  there re no thrust ssk her re no thrust senes

  there  like th ere
  there  like th ere
  out fter them

fter them  n ppening on the hnnel

to h ng the nme on  everything ng the n me on  everything me on
lize sn h emti gener sent  epistemology is virl, l,
ept ommon - o nson t not e-time there
  wet her p re sokeeiling's , lls on  i think the ltter, nothing rm tter,
  thingies rn wling. n e hereffluvi   the whimpering  the mewling  the
howling  ries out to rying  the murmuring  ut most of ut most of ut most

of ll the howling  the mewling  the ll the howling  the mewling  the

ll the howling  the mewling  the the ll  is in my slivn liv
  thingies rn herr   the whimpering  the mewling  the howling  the rying
the rying  the
rying  the he ut most of ll the howling  the mewling  the whimpering n ll
the howling  the mewling  the whimpering n

ll  ll

  into existene  loth shoul e

  you know tht  every oe t  every oens, n hr you know th ors its hile ren,
on  rm tter, nothing oult strophe, not s orrosion. long live the
ie tomorrow. is yours  fu
murmuring  ut most of ll the howling  the mewling  the whimpering ll  is
effluvi e he whimpering nrying  most of ll  on wet flesh, it's spetre  n
ept for revivl groups  it's the rumhorn or
l groups  it's the rumhorn or is going out of existen rumhorn or e, ex

onf lly
iousness re . ut tht mz kes it interesting e
rhr for voi rmonihrom   1
  h tune hrhrmoni lveless hromtune h hromtirh r for uku r for
r for voie uku
  uku r for voi ppens when _this_ stiks n ks
  for wht ...   t ...
t ...   ... ... for wht i ... for wh t i sk you ...   t i sk you ...   sk
you ...
... for wht ...
t ...   ... for wh
  the results n n1

things t s towrlly the worl s howling pin
in  s tow
if ry musi wing-room of the eighteenth-entury  entury
entury  7 we're still living in the
in  p

mily where i m > i see this refle ompoop"  n on't nee you to hn
stumle towving your le towrre s vs i stum ksh  sving  not founksh  s ving
not foun ving  not foun

ry musi the remn l offering s if w   not foun
  the frme-ron te is 100 fps. n l 'temporl orers' in thrust
  of the projetefr e  there re thrust, nking in silent thrust, not to nking/un
  events. l-worl ere e m ny spees  ere s  y
  into ke v ount .
  into ll of these re supple  the speetor
  of thrust in the projetor ry, tor ll of these tion  the spee of originltere
  up or slow own, le spee own, s  i.e. n vry set in e s well.

        hies, the film
night, upswing

(for esp-disk website)

some things on the music borne

i or so

avoidance of noise ,then how to schedule fury
or furious ,how to subtend silence

i don't want this thinking: that this is exploring instrument,
instrumentality ,nor a field ,subtended by fingers or mouth ,no more
than body

but the joist of particle physics ,muons on a sense of virtual
particles on another

(a b) (a, b) (a / b) (a : b) (a | b) (a f(a, b) b)

it is all resonance ,surprising ,metallic overtones ,ringing: i
remember just several sounds slowed into what seemed right even

foreign names touched by cultural illiteracy ,materials ,soundings,
emptied virtuosities

stringed, it is stringing ,perfect tautness ,resistance of parallel
field ,tension of endpoint separation ,tension of separation

i do not want to duplicate this ,i do not want to duplicate an other

something informing ,hypnagogic as if you might dream this ,an other
or dream an other this

but not tiring ,tirade ,more of a space of a sounding or what might be
'some of a sound'

of mewling ,howling ,whimpering ,murmuring ,seething ,then this amazing

neither to be where you have been nor will have gone there ,here is
one alone ,playing music ,playing music together

tending the wood ,nylon ,skin ,metal ,plastic ,catgut ,horsehair ,wax,
bamboo ,bone ,or tending the wires

the absence of metaphor ,wires ,no paralleling ,the difficulty
of absence ,no equivalence ,no identity ,just as everything else is,
or remains ,inert

sound of the obdurate ,sound of the inert

ii or so

learning to play these ,evenings or nights' mornings ,but with all
respect ,coaxing ,no world music ,no world but what ,are we brought,

here's an idea ,so i'll do it ,hear what happens ,when new ,then so
it is brought

always writing in silence ,always playing in silence ,playing silence,
listening silence ,enormous roiling ,slow extinction of the planet,
these last sounds ,instrument making ,them

she got up from the music ,he got down to the music,
he got up from the music ,she got down to the music

you'll be telling me specifically what you want to know,
i'll be telling you specifically what you want to know

allowing myself the courtesy of being-deaf,
allowing yourself my fingering you ,of being-sound & of mind & body

listing ,yayli tanbur ,ukulele ,cobza ,hasapi ,cura cumbus ,hegelung,
rababa ,electric saz ,valveless chromatic harmonica ,parlor guitar,
classical guitar ,alpine prime zither ,alpine elegy zither ,like the
emptying of names

unknown on my fault ,something else of shameful ,refusing abjection
in the moment when nail and steel ,flesh and wood ,collide

unknown ,everywhere i look ,unknown

iii or so

i'm not giving you what you want ,that is ,an entry into this sound,
some of an anecdote ,or at the very least, an explanation ,as in,
'you owe me an explanation'

i wouldn't know how to begin ,perhaps in eternal sorrow ,mourning,
every minute of the life

or the slightest peaks of joy

or stories about failure quantum-tunneled into music of unutterable
beauty ,or musics

or something about how these instruments came about ,what do i know
of their arrival ,or this i know ,their attraction for me ,sounding
of the world through them

fretless ,they are teaching me how to listen ,place each finger in its
rough exactitude

or fretted in narrowed intervals ,what might be ,for others ,or those
places of others ,a difference in this world

or numbers of worlds ,worlds without number ,over and over again,
desperately listening ,listening ,as if something might come about,
occur ,just by the sheer force of it

or the slow sweep of the bow as left hand fumbles for tone or tune,
begins its slower repetition ,rasa ,the savoring

iv or so

it is more you want ,more you ever want ,this savagery ,this lack
of mine ,of yours ,one more word ,phrase ,sound or tune ,book or text,
of book and of sound ,of tune and of text ,that will do it ,completion,
or suturing ,the fullness of the world ,fecundity, repleteness,
lathering ,or foam of planck mass ,length ,time ,of vacuum and an
energy ,of particle and fray

this savagery a savagery ,silence a quiescence, calmness ,the piercing

of things ,of some things ,on the music ,on the music borne

-----Original Message-----
From: Sid Shniad []
Sent: Thursday, September 17, 2009 11:00 PM
Subject: A moment of silence on 9/11- Before I start this poem A MOMENT OF

Before I start this poem,
I'd like to ask you to join me
In a moment of silence
In honor of those who died in the World Trade Center and the
Pentagon last September 11th.

I would also like to ask you
To offer up a moment of silence
For all of those who have been harassed, imprisoned,
disappeared, tortured, raped, or killed in retaliation for those strikes
For the victims in both Afghanistan and the U.S.

And if I could just add one more thing...
A full day of silence
For the tens of thousands of Palestinians who have died at the
hands of U.S.-backed Israeli
forces over decades of occupation.
Six months of silence for the million and-a-half Iraqi people,
mostly children, who have died of
malnourishment or starvation as a result of an 11-year U.S.
embargo against the country.

Before I begin this poem,
Two months of silence for the Blacks under Apartheid in South Africa,
Where homeland security made them aliens in their own country.
Nine months of silence for the dead in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Where death rained down and peeled back every layer of
concrete, steel, earth and skin
And the survivors went on as if alive.
A year of silence for the millions of dead in Vietnam - a people,
not a war - for those who
know a thing or two about the scent of burning fuel, their
relatives' bones buried in it, their babies born of it.
A year of silence for the dead in Cambodia and Laos, victims of
a secret war ... ssssshhhhhhh...
Say nothing
we don't want them to learn that they are dead.
Two months of silence for the decades of dead in Colombia,
Whose names, like the corpses they once represented,
have piled up and slipped off our tongues.

Before I begin this poem.
An hour of silence for El Salvador ...
An afternoon of silence for Nicaragua ...
Two days of silence for the Guatemaltecos ...
None of whom ever knew a moment of peace in their living years.
45 seconds of silence for the 45 dead at Acteal, Chiapas

25 years of silence for the hundred million Africans who found
their graves far deeper in the ocean than any building could
poke into the sky.
There will be no DNA testing or dental records to identify their remains.
And for those who were strung and swung from the heights of
sycamore trees in the south, the north, the east, and the west...

100 years of silence...
For the hundreds of millions of Indigenous peoples from this half
of right here,
Whose land and lives were stolen,
In postcard-perfect plots like Pine Ridge, Wounded Knee, Sand Creek,
Fallen Timbers, or the Trail of Tears.
Names now reduced to innocuous magnetic poetry on the
refrigerator of our consciousness ...

So you want a moment of silence?
And we are all left speechless
Our tongues snatched from our mouths
Our eyes stapled shut
A moment of silence
And the poets have all been laid to rest
The drums disintegrating into dust.

Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence
You mourn now as if the world will never be the same
And the rest of us hope to hell it won't be.
Not like it always has

Because this is not a 9/11 poem.
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem
This is a 1492 poem.

This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written.
And if this is a 9/11 poem, then:
This is a September 11th poem for Chile, 1971.
This is a September 12th poem for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977.
This is a September 13th poem for the brothers at Attica Prison, New York,
This is a September 14th poem for Somalia, 1992.
This is a poem for every date that falls to the ground in ashes
This is a poem for the 110 stories that were never told
The 110 stories that history chose not to write in textbooks
The 110 stories that CNN, BBC, The New York Times, and Newsweek ignored.
This is a poem for interrupting this program.

And still you want a moment of silence for your dead?
We could give you lifetimes of empty:
The unmarked graves
The lost languages
The uprooted trees and histories
The dead stares on the faces of nameless children
Before I start this poem we could be silent forever
Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us
And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.

If you want a moment of silence
Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines and the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights,
Delete the instant messages,
Derail the trains, the light rail transit.

If you want a moment of silence, put a brick through the window of Taco
And pay the workers for wages lost.
Tear down the liquor stores,
The townhouses, the White Houses, the jailhouses, the
Penthouses and the Playboys.

If you want a moment of silence,
Then take it
On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July
During Dayton's 13 hour sale
Or the next time your white guilt fills the room where my beautiful
people have gathered.

You want a moment of silence
Then take it NOW,
Before this poem begins.
Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second hand,
In the space between bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence,
Take it.
But take it all...
Don't cut in line.
Let your silence begin at the beginning of crime.
But we,
Tonight we will keep right on singing
For our dead.

By EMMANUEL ORTIZ , 11 Sep 2002

Emmanuel Ortiz is a third-generation Chicano/Puerto Rican/Irish-American
community organizer and spoken word poet residing in Minneapolis, MN. He
currently serves on the board of directors for the Minnesota Spoken Word
Association, and is the coordinator of Guerrilla Wordfare, a Twin
Cities-based grassroots project bringing together artists of color to
address socio-political issues and raise funds for progressive organizing in
communities of color through art as a tool of social change.

Generated by Mnemosyne 0.12.