The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

March 6, 2011


1. Please download EVERYTHING from and
Who knows how long these sites will be up? A dying star, war-time
em-burst, nuclear terrorism, very little: and THE WORK disappears.
Such work as remains virtual debris or residue: it has NO OTHER
existence than what you can give it, yourself, among your storage
machines, your data-bases, your memories CONCRETE.

2. Please enact EVERYTHING visible or audible, everything legible,
within the hardness of MARBLE or GRANITE, guarantee them at the
least, a modicum of existence beyond my lifespan (as my health
again turns HARSH). It is my DREAM to have this work, these
proclaiming, that these were POTENTIALS at a certain stage of our
existence, these were THINGS in the worlds of imaginations.

ask, so great and small the results.



There are 500 million worlds in our galaxy, a great number of which might
support life. Or 500 billion - this changes daily - as such, at least
seventy planets for each of us on earth: inconceivable. Life-forms seem to
have been found within a meteorite, some local and identifiable, and
others alien to the core. Multiverses range from 10^500 to an infinite
number of universes, depending on the theory; in some of these, we're
reproduced more or less exactly - in others, there's no relationship - in
almost all, no ingress or egress; we're alone but fantastically duplica-
ted. Ontology disappears, as does epistemology; knowledge and its constit-
uents devolve in entirely unforeseen ways. Singularities are more of our
myths; what is happening is slow erosion, as if eternity is just around
the corner - but corners themselves are duplicated, and there is no more
of the same, just as sameness itself appears as 10^500, an impossible
degree. The point of all of this - the x-dimensional space-time of all of
this - is only that knowledge has collapsed in its own deconstruction;
given the problematic of proof, at least in this era, there's no reassem-
blage on the other side of the brane or horizon. It's hard to configure
art or ideology - any set or fieldings of human cultural values, given
this landscape; new discoveries from one day to another bypass momentary
blockages which are temporarily assembled as theory beyond heuristics -
Badiou's mathematics comes to mind, Lacan, continental thought, philosophy
itself, just about any scoring or underscoring one might make of a day or
night when knowledge seems certain, always on the verge of trembling or
text. I try to situate my work in relation to all of these, discarding
myth, religion, even geometries and the truth of the image - any image -
any imaginary - along the way. Buddhism stumbles on reincarnation for me,
and the paradoxes of the void dissipate in the sizzle of virtual produc-
tion. One writes always already suspended, from what and from where, or
what form of connectivities - these are not only the wrong questions to
ask, they're questions that are deeply meaningless, as is the preposi-
tional aegis constructed in and out of localized geometries: above, below,
within, without, before, after, and so forth. The suspension is from
nothing. There is a degree of production one attempts to do, with all this
knowledge, anti-knowledge. Even here, I am ignoring mass extinctions, the
damage humans have done to the planet, local political corruptions, the
nadir of what appears, from our positions on the bent plane, as universal
slaughter. Everything can disappear in an instant: 9/11, Katrina,
Christchurch, Tibet, are names hinting at a damaged symbolic. It's this:
as time goes on, (phenomenologically) speeds up, nothing is recoverable;
we're already gone before we've arrived: we're ghosts occasioned by our
own exponentially-increasing knowledge which is already out of date. We
can't catch up with ourselves, as ghosts; phantasms fly faster than flesh,
which drags us down to death, to a stop of all of this. But until then,
what? That these universes carry us elsewhere, that we become invaders of
our very selves, marauders of what we've taken for granted? I try to work
through this storm, this permanent monsoon encompassing all realities, all
virtualities, no matter how invisible. And we're all, all of us and our
selves, in the same positionless.


note 1 - not acceleration, but derivatives > 2nd degree;
note 2 - not virtual or real, inscriptive or abject: neti neti,
neither this or that, thrown outward, neither sein or dasein,
all sets are open



serious silliness what was called sex machine
or you have your head in your chest or in any case
there's a truth in the image lacking in the text
which is always lax (remember the ground is never
far away: "the symbolic closed ranks behind hir"

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