Message-ID: <alpine.NEB.2.00.1108210356590.4202@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.wvu.edu>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: suicide death-wound, injury, pain
Date: Sun, 21 Aug 2011 03:58:40 -0400 (EDT)
suicide death-wound, injury, pain http://www.alansondheim.org/antel027.jpg That I thought suicide, lived in death's 1973 I think this was the year Gail Klayminck committed suicide; as on the Cybermind list, May 8, he committed suicide. He was a brilliant trans-speaking suicide, I'm going to take my dog and go into the desert and I'm 2006 Barry Sugarman committed suicide; he was the hand drummer in our disasters through drugs, through suicides, through rages, through death an absolute loss of a world, and it is these worlds, replete, their family frightened me; I felt death lurked in what seemed to be emotional catastrophe, death, always already around the corner, and the only proof of spirit I can think of is based on the preposterousness of death, to the point they were simultaneously life and death, my self-disappearance had had frontal lobotomies, people literally starving to death, or dying by myself, facing death and the world and the one family member I prayed, words "i'm tired" in Sprechstimme; they were words about death. But that line, so secretly conservative, that I thought suicide, lived in death's always, there seemed a descent, fear, mumbling after death. Somewhere the ringing of death itself or rather the horizon of death which lies in death which we pray is not immediate, not soon; sixteenth, recognizing in the way our own deaths are present even in the most fundamental acts of the scattering of my material culture, memories, after me, when you are yet another. And how worlds shatter, imminent, with death! - What has been sex-death dances. I read everything I can about Anita Berber, Candace and death in virtual worlds. Into lives. I am the inconceivable interior of an open wound; everything I remember with her face, it was a serious wound. everything is torn asunder, wounded, just as the world falls apart, less old as the others. thinking ideas of pain, wounding, sexuality, which were painted. These were my worlds - along with a stuffed cocker spaniel, 1952 I remember a wonderful British tricycle with large wheels, painted of a _state of pain,_ the images and sensations of continuous injection, i remember the softness of the unpainted wood. The box was my friend falling onto the floor. The walls were painted black. There were black pains of the world, our awkwardness and pain, is all there was as well in a magazine - and this was similar, although for me it was painful. and a single fingernail painted red; we'd arrive at the same time from opposite years, paintings and food and odds and ends, she left suddenly, told no one but insomnia, arousal and despair, broken bones, unutterable pain - say otherwise, these possibilities are in a way the problematic limits of what I'm working through, wounding through pain, through sexuality, through death, suicide death-wound, injury, and pain