The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

bloody mess it is these days in me head an yours

hell its falling apart down your dress an all

do me trousers wet with the

I didn't know how to present this. The obdurate stupidity of death takes
over as relatives make their plays before everything disperses. Things
come together, skein, disperse again. I was thinking of DEAF 2012 on the
way and why not make a hospital? Hospitals do few people good. When I wake
up now, I start with Paul Celan, a habit I should leave behind. There's
also Fox's Book of Martyrs, and Tortures and Torments of the Christian
Martyrs. Everywhere the body is skewed, torn, dismembered. Alphonso Lingis
writes the phenomenology of dismemberment, Deleuze and Guattari set the
stage. Irigaray finds a more fluid way. I get stopped by Krieg dem Kriege,
War Against War; there a relationship between those images and Otto Dix's
painting. Dix also painted Anita Berber, a heroine of mine whose lover
Droste apparently married Gloria Swanson after Paula Negri. Berber set the
stage but Valeska Gert populated it. The few remaining traces of Gert
culminate in Fellini's hermaphrodite in Juliet of the Spirits. Spirits
never piss or shit, double over in pain, suffer the displacement of the
psyche onto the stigmata of the body. They might as well be game-pieces;
Lucifer walks through hell like an accountant. I feel like I'm inside a
bank. What's inside the bank? Deposit box 057 and it's hot as hell. Back
then there were fingers on knobs, charred to the bone; back then the bone
took care of the prints. (imagine this _here_)

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