The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

July 21, 2010

i created the curlicue
the tangent which feathers and obscures the w/hole

the curlicue is irritated
i created the curlicue
the curlicue was irritated (that it was created)
it's just that edge it bothers me
it turns the rest of it into the symbolic
it's the sign of the symbol
the sign which inscribes the symbol
the sign inscribing the symbol
the curlicue i created makes meaning of everything
makes meaning of us all
it's irritated it thinks it's too easy
it curls up in the you-wait-and-see
it makes me so tired bye bye
me so tired bye bye
bye bye bye bye bye

Occupying many positions,

Occupying many positions, some of what I write must be true, in one or
another world. Shall I kill myself now, knowing my mind is intact and will
survive as such in heaven. If I die now, my partner will have long years
ahead of her, fulfilled with the promise of youth. If I live I no longer
want to watch myself. I refuse to stumble over the forgotten language that
recomposes itself out of decomposition. I skitter over the truth; skitter
is all that exists. I mean to return to autobiography, skirting the worst
incidents, curtailing the self-pity, creating flesh from meat, and meat
from suffusion of language. My work consists of aphorisms cauterized from
the real. More and more I understand what I mean to accomplish remains out
of reach; the best I can hope for is the incoherency of the anonymous. Out
there, I am either nuisance or eccentric. Death ties a noose around my
work. To call what I do 'work' is only to imply that a certain amount of
energy and labor was exhausted in the creation of ephemera. If, as I
believe, I have always been without a face, why can I never look in a
mirror? I'll see everything else in the world, but I work to eliminate
humans in my photographs and films. The fact that I can insert anything
anywhere debilitates my philosophical analysis. Philosophy is always
crippled, produced in a state of being-crippled. The failure of hobbies
results in philosophy, which has no object. I can only write myself out of
existence; the rest is already lost. If I die 'now' as opposed to 'now' -
what is left out, what remains to be inherited, what has been lost, what
has been gained? I used to read without writers; now I write without
readers. There is never enough time to circumvent death. Circumambulation
requires an origin and there is always the failure of completion. My music
insists on notes between notes, and other notes between them; each clamors
for position, for its right to be heard, for the necessity of sound and
sounding in the face of annihilation. The return to the tonic is always
momentary. The tonic slides out, depends, not on memory, but on the
forgetting of larger, broken intervals. The tonic is never a decision.
Truths yield up truths, truths yield up, truths yield. In the end, every
thing gives up import; import neither gives nor gives up. If this is not
written, if this is not read, then what? If this is written, and then
lost, then what? If this is read and lost, then what? And then what?

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