The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

the idiotic poverty of pain

because there's so little to say about pain, you're always thumping up
against that, a sort off surface which gives way, but only within a
limited compliance, after a while one wants to slither, one wants to move,
to move, into projections of images or fantasies, or holographic universes
on the edges of the surface, you can consider the surface in the same way
as you can consider the bangu, the drum, as you can consider the surface
as the surface of pain, with the center where the harshness occurs, and
then reading the skin, reading the skin on the outside of the drum, and
then leaving the drum altogether and go elsewhere, the sound that goes
elsewhere, so, moving from there, after a while, pain then reveals itself,
as does death, as an ultimate poverty, idiotic, nothing left but null
signifiers always already collapsed, because everything becomes the same
token, everything becomes the same dissolution or decay of the proton, so
what is left is not even substance, one moves away then to embrace, or
catch or catapult oneself, or corral, the image or imaginary that appears
on the outside of the curvature of the drum, it's there that sound mean-
ders into form, embraces the subject, brings hir back alive

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