The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

December 31, 2011

the murmur and breathing

of something just outside the potential of a sphere
caught in a mesmeric or ectoplasmic field...

i remember the sound, somewhat, a kind of murmuring from a
vietnamese oboe, lowered in pitch, the over-recording
transformed into a form of breathing, the whole becoming-
an-animal like myself, a musing or shuffling, or a jostling,
but of notes and spatial magnitudes of unbearable beauty

a rough patch or rough spot. something rough in the narrative.
uncompromising. something about perfect. i could hardly hear
him. the storm...

i remember the cube with the voice announcing perfect, as if
it were impossible to speak in the grey dawn, when only
bandages held the limbs together, it might have been after
sex, or after a war, or an overpowering examination, this
untoward chanting of a mantra, i am perfect, i am perfect,
when everything, in the cold grey dawn, spilled otherwise

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