The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

October 22, 2011


memorial for my father, second day

true to the image or true to the intention
images have no intention, true to the image
true to the mood of the image, has no mood
nor true to the mood of the intention,
nor intention of the mood, nor truth to the image
which is formed by mood and intention,
no intention of intention, and no framing,
but framing of intention and mood, no framing
of the image, but the image's framing, breaking
the mood, intention

every image is memorial of itself,
memorial of every image, and a god
might say, so much sight, so much sight

Blog entry errors has been updated.


there are none today. they may appear here, but so far i have eluded them.
it is errors that ruin my work, that bring it to a halt, that make me
appear incompetent, that put words into my mouth, that remove words from
my mouth. the errors are of spelling, homonyms, syntax gone astray,
pronouns with confused antecedents. the errors corrode the text; i'll
never be understood (they seem to say) because i'm incapable of removing
them, circumscribing them, keeping them beyond the pale. they wound the
text. the cicatrix never appears because nothing ever changes. one, a
reader, puts out tendrils as if meaning could be encompassed, could
encompass, in such a fashion. but errors tend to hid; they appear through
their disappearance, hiding beneath or elsewhere than one or another
spell-check program. in other words, they change sense, senselessly, and
because they remain undiscovered, those words are put in my mouth and they
won't come out again in this or any other lifetime.

oh, these errors ruin everything! stupid stupid! i appear stupid! it
doesn't do any good to insist: i'm not! this would have been elsewise than
i have been in the process of text! of speech! of inscription that denies
me the brilliance i know is rightfully mine!


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