The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

August 21, 2011

suicide death-wound, injury, pain

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

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