The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

December 23, 2010


sex and music

virtuosity is useless today underneath the sheets. we're all player pianos
underneath the sheets. my instruments go out of tune with the slightest
change of humidity or temperature underneath the sheets. my instruments go
out of style underneath the sheets. there's nothing electric running in
them except for electroweak forces underneath the sheets. their molecules
might be anywhere underneath the sheets. their history might be anywhere
underneath the sheets. i practice and practice an utterly useless art
underneath the sheets. i can't dial in scales or cents; i have to run with
the flow underneath the sheets. my fingers search, endlessly, for perfect
consonance or dissonance underneath the sheets. everything is dissonance;
perfect consonance is impossible underneath the sheets. welcome to the
world of catastrophic balance underneath the sheets. my fingers pay no
attention, tightening and loosening wires underneath the sheets. this
doesn't come easy; it comes with several hours lost in the day underneath
the sheets. these are lost hours; they do nothing for me underneath the
sheets. for you at best they retain a sense of the antiquarian underneath
the sheets. one second of nikuko, julu, or jennifer is worth more than
weeks of hand-played musical noise underneath the sheets. they're
uselessly demanding underneath the sheets. there's nothing to do but heed
them underneath the sheets. i'll be the worst last virtuoso, wait and see
underneath the sheets.

when i play an instrument, a current runs through me underneath the
sheets. now this is the aporia: it appears to be the strong force
underneath the sheets. the strong force on the level of quarks and gluons
you understand underneath the sheets. as if i were playing the field
currents and their probabilities underneath the sheets. it's hard to
escape the most popular feynman diagrams underneath the sheets. i push
against the grain having no idea what might emerge underneath the sheets.
no wonder einstein's dice-playing god had the singular die underneath the
sheets.

i am the server-surveyor-surgeon of my participation underneath the
sheets. in a world in a world of my own making in dialog with a world
underneath the sheets. i am dead and my dialog is a dead dialog in dialog
with a dead world underneath the sheets.

there is no music in this true real world underneath the sheets. there is
no sound underneath the sheets. i bring sound from elsewhere underneath
the sheets. the screaming harpies arrive underneath the sheets. they
arrive from somewhere else, wayward and untoward ontology underneath the
sheets. they give substance to display, grit to projection, dirt to
platonism underneath the sheets.

i press against the violin fingerboard underneath the sheets. i leave dna
behind underneath the sheets. dirt dna, fingerprints, oils, bacteria,
prions, viruses, and cells underneath the sheets. what you hear struggles
to get heard underneath the sheets. what you see is dead when you are dead
underneath the sheets. you are dead here and now underneath the sheets.
this is called the 'instant underneath the sheets.' but a current runs
through it underneath the sheets. and through this current i am sure it is
the strong force underneath the sheets. and i begin the count of baryons
underneath the sheets. i begin the baryon count underneath the sheets.

whirling again

rotations stopped for a while (between then and now)
started again, here we go
the register's too high, speed too great
you can just barely make out the phrase

alone with the violin, i feel i can do nothing
alone with the violin, i feel i can do anything

it's the emptiness that first appears, and then the dawn,
bristling with knives and dancers

http://espdisk.com/alansondheim/rwrw.mp3

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